


Intentions

by Thea_K



Category: ONE OK ROCK
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Romance, F/M, Find out with me, I don't know how this ends, I'm excited y'all, M/M, Slow Burn, multi-chapter, the answer is: brain still doesn't let her stop writing, what happens when the author gets her heartbroken?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:01:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 27,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27795817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thea_K/pseuds/Thea_K
Summary: Whatever it takes to make him happy - be it making our band’s wish to make it big overseas come true, finding him a girlfriend, whatever he wants… I’ll do it, Taka vows to himself.Or: In which Taka’s gratitude towards Toru leads him to take action, leading to unexpected consequences. They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions …
Relationships: Morita Takahiro/Yamashita Toru, Moriuchi Takahiro/Yamashita Toru, others
Comments: 86
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So here we are, waiting for OOR to feed us something besides Toru's photos of the recent radio interview with Milet. I'm getting impatient, leading to this 😆 I've also been listening to the live, acoustic version of In The Stars on repeat. It's SO beautiful and the lyrics got me thinking ... I know it's about their climb to fame as a band, but it could also be interpreted as like a love song about a couple that breaks barriers 😉 
> 
> I'm starting this one with no plan whatsoever, and crossing my fingers that it turns out alright haha. Another experiment in multi-chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and no offense is meant. Lyrics are owned by OOR & Toto.

It is immediately obvious, if one were to observe Toru with his niece and nephew, that the guitarist was a natural father. Not in the overtly saccharine sense, i.e. in the way that some people’s voices raise an octave as they spout nonsense to small children. But in the way that such children are drawn to reticent kindness, and are eager to show off lopsided drawings so that they may earn a loving pat on the head. It could be said that the guitarist’s patient amusement was not dissimilar to how some dogs could endure endless ear- or tail-pulling by a curious child.

So, why then, was he not yet a father – or even in a relationship?

Taka dwells on such things as he overhears Tomoya tell his eldest that he’ll soon be home to put him to bed. A smile graces the drummer’s face as he baby-talks into his _keitai_ ; it lights his face from within. Fatherhood suits him, Taka thinks, just as it does Ryota and so it would too, with Toru.

Still on his phone, the drummer waves bye to the vocalist as he walks out of the studio, to which the latter responds with a quiet ‘ _otsukare!_ ’

Then it is just Taka left in the room since Ryota had left earlier and Toru was most likely out for a smoke.

It had a been a brutal but productive day. The singer’s focus had long been shot to hell, his thoughts meandering this way and that as he waits for the guitarist to return. He absentmindedly tinkers with keys on the keyboard, his train of thought returning to the prospect of Toru’s fatherhood, or more precisely - lack thereof, of any developments in that direction.

Amongst other things, he thinks of the guitarist’s rare smiles – the indulgent one he saves mainly for children being the rarest of all. Taka thinks on how it is softer than his usual ones and makes his usually sleepy eyes shine …

But Taka is not one for internal musing for too long, and soon he abandons the trail of his thoughts to focus on chords that coalesce into the newest song he’s written. He begins to hum.

It is one of the vocalist’s weaknesses: the inability to stick to one thing for too long. He tires quickly of things that take too much practice and concentration, much to his parents’ consternation during his teenage years. Things like school work, guitar and piano lessons, and even vocal lessons. It’s why his guitar- and piano- playing skills have not progressed beyond intermediate. (Perhaps he’ll get Tomoya to play a more elaborate version of this song in a live.) It’s probably why he himself can’t seem to hold down a girlfriend for more than a couple of months.

That’s why it’s almost a miracle that he has stuck to their band for all these years, Taka acknowledges. He would be trash if not for that fated meeting between him and the band’s leader all those years ago.

Without realising it, these percolating thoughts escape through his fingers and throat. His humming has morphed into lyrics and he’s more than halfway through the song.

_I wasn’t born to follow_

_So I took the lead_

_I didn’t lose the dream_

_Forget about tomorrow_

_Bring it on tonight_

_The sky’s burning bright_

He closes his eyes and lets the emotions that well up within him take over, his tiredness melting away. In this blessed state, there is no need to think – for conscious thought – and therefore no possibility of distraction; he is just a conduit to something much larger than himself.

_We’re all the way up, up, up,_

_We’ll never look down, down, down,_

_Breaking the ceiling_

_'cause I believe the world is ours_

Taka was born with a song in his mouth, his mother used to joke. His parents had gifted him genetically with his talents, but he knows that the band and their ambitions have given him a reason to live, to anchor his dreamer spirit, and to not feel alone in refusing to be another nameless doll in the theatre of Japanese society. These are the sentiments that sustain his voice effortlessly.

_We’re all the way up, up, up,_

_We’ll never look down, down, down,_

_I got a feeling that it was_

_Written in the stars_

As he continues to sing, a thought suddenly blazes into the vocalist’s consciousness: _I owe this band my life and I owe Toru especially. Whatever it takes to make him happy - be it making our band’s wish to make it big overseas come true, finding him a girlfriend, whatever he wants… I’ll do it_ , Taka vows to himself.

He freestyles the “oh” bits, imbuing his falsetto with quiet determination.

_Written in the stars …_

The chords finally die out and he slowly opens his eyes, feeling a little out of breath from the intensity of his promise and singing alike.

When the blurry circles in his vision have sharpened, Taka realises he’s not alone.

Beyond the glass wall of the studio, within the control room, Toru stands and watches him with an expression he’s rarely seen on the guitarist. His eyes are hooded as usual, but the gaze is strangely soft yet intense at the same time. And it might simply be because he’s startled by the sudden appearance of the other, but Taka feels an odd feeling washing over him that makes his cheeks heat up. It occurs to him that he feels a little vulnerable having performed under the weight of this stare; usually Toru’s head is turned down when he plays his guitar and Taka is almost always preoccupied with the audience.

 _Whatever it takes_ , Taka’s inner voice echoes as he clears his throat, wanting to dispel his shyness.

And then there’s a beep of a swipe card and a door opening: the last of the sound technicians peeking his head in.

Through the intercom, Taka hears him say that he’s off for the night. They automatically respond with the customary thanks-for-your-hard-work and see-you-later’s. Bowing deeply, the technician apologises for leaving earlier than they do, and closes the door carefully behind him. The sound of his footsteps quickly recedes.

When Toru turns his head back towards Taka, his eyes have returned to normal, as if their strange intensity earlier was a figment of Taka’s tiredness. The guitarist then sets about grabbing his jacket that’s been draped over a nearby chair and shrugging it on.

The curious feeling in Taka deflates when he feels the atmosphere has returned to normal; it is comforting but his earlier tiredness sets in once again. Slowly, he depresses the button that turns the keyboard on, stands up and makes his way out of the studio and into the control room. Fetching his beloved ‘fire’ shoulder bag from the corner, he slips it over his head before approaching Toru.

“Shall we go home?” the guitarist asks, turning his body as Taka stops a foot away from him.

And Taka, breathing in the faint, familiar scent of Malboro smoke as he stifles a yawn, nods yes.

🕐🕐🕐

The drive home is peaceful enough despite being caught in mild Tokyo traffic. It’s not the traffic that’s annoying per se, but the frequent stopping at red lights that increases the chances of being seen and recognised by passersby on the footpath and pedestrian crossings.

At the fourth red light, Taka takes proactive measures and reaches in to the glove box to retrieve matching tinted glasses. He hands the slightly larger one to Toru before he dons his pair over his face mask. Unlike the vocalist, the guitarist isn’t bothered enough to wear a mask since he’s less likely to be recognised.

“Pass me some gum too?” Toru asks, making Taka blindly grapple around the glove box again until he feels a rectangular-shaped packet of Wrigley’s. He pulls out a single stick.

The Honda’s engine purrs to life as the traffic light turns green and then the guitarist is busy with his hands on the wheel. Taka unwraps the stick of gum and places it near the preoccupied guitarist’s mouth. He pretends to be incensed (‘ _omae!_ ’) when Toru, with eyes on the road, chomps on the ends of the vocalist's fingers, which are too slow to make a getaway.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Taka’s laugh breaks past his fake anger. He withdraws his hand.

Toru, beginning to chew, briefly sends a cheeky smirk in the singer’s direction, not bothering to deny it, before turning his attention back to the road. Taka wipes his fingers against Toru’s sweatshirt. 

This secret, playful side to Toru would also make him a great boyfriend, Taka thinks to himself as he takes in the guitarist’s handsome side profile. The car drives by a particularly brightly lit convenience store, whose fluorescence momentarily catches on Toru’s silver earring. The earrings are a perfect pair to his own – both of them accidentally picking out the same pair when browsing a cute little store in Santa Monica in between their L.A. recording sessions.

“ _Ne_ , Toru,” Taka asks after a while, turning in his seat to fully face the guitarist.

“Mmmm?”

“What would make you happy?”

Toru remains quiet, his left-hand switching gears as the car speeds up to overtake a straggler in the fast lane. But Taka knows from years of knowing the guitarist that he’s heard and is processing the question. They slow down as they approach another red light.

This intersection’s a busy one, and Taka’s eyes shift to watch the pedestrians. Some of them include young, loved-up couples whose hands are entwined.

“What makes you think I’m not happy now?” Toru eventually responds, watching the people walk past.

A pair of young women amble past the car with their smooth white legs on display, followed by a father with a baby swaddled in a sling. Taka watches carefully from the corner of his eye as the guitarist’s eyes take in the sight. He thinks he spies a tiny smile on his lips when the father rearranges the baby’s lolling head.

“Don’t you ever get lonely, knowing we’re the only ones in the band that haven’t started families yet?”

The question seems to take the guitarist aback. Toru’s head bows slightly and, after a beat, shifts towards Taka’s.

“Sometimes,” he answers, eyes searching the vocalist’s but darting away quickly.

Taka senses there’s more that the guitarist wants to say, but then the lights turn and his face is awash in a faint green. The car takes off again and they lapse into silence.

Above the hum of the engine, the soft swell of music from the vehicle’s sound system continues.

 _It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you_ _  
There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do  
I bless the rains down in Africa  
Gonna take some time to do the things we never had …_

_/ Whatever it takes ... /_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how this chapter ended up as long as it did, but here it is.
> 
> Also, ahhhh! It was Toru's birthday yesterday and we finally got a crumb of Toruka with Taka's IG post! It was enough, for now. Looks like they were probably in either Toru or Taka's apartment from the look of the ceiling behind Toru's head. Does this mean they spent the night together, making sweet, sweet.... music? 😆 (I make my own self snjsjsjsjssjsjhaaaaaaaaaah!) 
> 
> Okay, enough rambling ... enjoy!

Taka is resting in the common staff kitchen, idly trawling through his social media feeds on his _ketai,_ when a yawning Ryota enters the room and makes a beeline for the coffee machine.

The singer’s feed is largely populated by photos of his friends’ selfies, meals or places they’ve visited. The similar filters and angles make them all start looking the same, Taka laments, before he happens upon one that stands out. His friend Ayaka has posted a simple, untouched photo of her hand next to her newborn’s. The latter’s hand is so tiny, the normal creases and joints looking squished within the limited real estate of the limb; it makes Ayaka’s normal-sized hand seem oversized in comparison. Taka lets out a fond huff and his finger lingers on the photo long after he’s pressed the heart-shaped like button.

“Is Mori-chan getting clucky?” Ryota peeps over his shoulder before settling down across the table from him.

“Me?” Taka lightly scoffs, shaking his head and placing his phone on the table, “I like kids but I don’t think I’m quite ready for it yet.”

“Do you think I was?” Ryota jokes, taking a tentative sip from his mug.

“Definitely not,” Taka chuckles when the bassist’s face scrunches up when he realises the liquid is still too hot.

Ryota places the mug back down. For a while they both watch steam rise from it. The vapour curls around itself before thinning out.

“I’m thinking of setting up Toru with someone,” Taka abruptly announces, seemingly apropos of nothing.

Ryota, who was in the middle of chancing another sip, winces the liquid down at the unexpected turn in conversation.

“What?” the bassist chokes out, setting the mug on the table, “Where’d that come from?”

“Uh, I was just thinking that we’ve all gotten to the stage where we should be settling down but he still hasn’t,” Taka tries to explain, “That Taiwanese fortune teller said I should be okay until I’m 35, but I’m worried that Toru’s missing out.”

Ryota tilts his head as he considers the explanation. If the bassist was sleepy before, Taka notes that he’s weirdly perked up by the topic.

“Have you talked to him about this?” the bassist eventually asks.

“Yeah, kinda,” the singer replies, his eyes trained on the evaporating steam, “I asked him if he was happy but he was a bit evasive, like he was hiding something.”

The vocalist thinks back on their conversation in the car a few days ago and remembers his hunch that Toru was withholding something from him.

“Is Toru interested in anyone at the moment?” Taka asks, eyes boring into Ryota’s.

As soon as he’s formed the question, he realises he feels a little jealous that he has to ask the bassist, who’s been the guitarist’s long-time friend since childhood. The singer knows he shouldn’t compare – that he has his own brand of intimacy with the guitarist; but he’s always felt there was still an invisible barrier that keeps him from the latter’s innermost thoughts.

Taka is so caught up in his own head that he almost misses the sudden stiffness that overcomes the bassist’s posture.

“Toru- _nii_ …” Ryota starts but then falters, breaking eye contact. _Nan to iu,_ he mutters underneath his breath.

Taka watches as Ryota squirms on his seat and intuits that the bassist knows something he doesn’t. He tries to not let his envy show.

“He was – has been – interested in someone for a long time, but…”

“But what?”

“I don’t think that person knows.” 

“Oh,” Taka replies, nodding his head in thought. He feels a prickly sensation inside as he takes in the information. He puts it down to disappointment that he’s the last to know of something, which he suspects he is regarding this issue.

“Why doesn’t he just tell that person?” the singer asks offhandedly, masking his emotions.

He takes note that Ryota’s eyes shift around the room, not meeting his immediately. When they eventually do, the bassist shrugs and quickly reverts his eyes back down to his coffee.

“I guess he’s waiting for the other person to notice?”

“I see.”

“No offense, but that person probably doesn’t deserve him if they haven’t noticed by now,” Taka suddenly pronounces, “In any case, I think it will be good for Toru to start dating again.”

“Uh…” Ryota starts, scratching his cheek – a gesture that belies his discomfort, “I... guess so?”

Suddenly Taka’s phone chirps with a LINE notification. When he unlocks his screen, he sees it’s from Toru to the group chat.

Toru: _Where are you guys?_

The singer quickly taps out a sassy response.

Taka: _Why? Miss us already?_ 😉 

The reply is almost immediate.

Toru: _You know it_ 😉 _Hurry up._

Taka smirks as he types, oblivious to Ryota’s intrigued stare.

Taka: 😘 _Ok, ok._ _Be back soon._

A couple of seconds elapses before:

Toru: _Baka_ 😌

And the singer smiles to himself.

“Who are you messaging?” the bassist asks innocently over his lifted cup of coffee. He’s curious as to who’s responsible for the clearly fond look on the vocalist’s face. 

“Oh,” Taka says, pocketing his phone and standing up, “The devil himself wants us to go back to the practice room.”

Then the singer is out the door before Ryota’s brain cells catch up. And when they do, his eyebrows lift.

 _Maybe there’s hope yet_ , he thinks.

🕐🕐🕐

It’s later that week that Taka thinks he finds a suitable candidate to date Toru.

They’re at Korean barbeque after practice, upon Tomoya’s request. The drummer had been craving red meat, since his wife had been sticking to making food that's easy digestible for their toddler and he hadn’t had anything tougher than pumpkin in a while. The thin strips of meat barely sizzle for two minutes before they’re pinched off the grill and wolfed down by the drummer and bassist.

“ _Meccha umai_ ,” Ryota says between bites, while Tomoya nods his head and grins with his mouth full.

“Savages,” a standing Taka reproaches the pair while cutting up some scotch fillet for himself and Toru, “You’re going to get a stomach ache if you eat too fast.”

“Yeah, listen to your mother, boys,” Toru says, earning a playful glare from the vocalist.

“ _Hai_ , _‘tousan_ ,” Tomoya and Ryota chorus, before looking at each other and bursting into laughter.

Taka rolls his eyes and sits down, putting down the tongs. He cranes his neck and begins to search around the table before the side dishes he’s looking for are placed in front of him. They’re his favourite: tofu seasoned with _gochuchang_ , and macaroni salad. Surprised, he looks up to thank Toru, but the guitarist has already moved on to fetching his own preferred side dishes. It’s such an understated gesture but reveals how much the guitarist pays attention.

 _Whoever Toru’s interested in is sure missing out_ , Taka thinks to himself. He makes sure to serve the guitarist first when the cubes of scotch fillet have been nicely seared on the outside.

🕐🕐🕐

They’re on their third plate of meat when Tomoya suddenly stills his chopsticks in midair for a few seconds, briefly frozen in time, before resuming to pick some _kalbi_ off the grill. Taka lifts one eyebrow in query while turning over some ox tongue.

“Hey, so firstly: act natural,” the drummer says, now adding some beansprouts and spinach to his rice bowl.

But Taka has to bite his lips hard since Ryota’s version of ‘acting natural’ is to suddenly burst into fake, loud laughter, like he’s having the time of his life. Toru’s shoulders shake as he silently laughs at his antics, but Tomoya kicks the bassist under the table, causing the feigned guffaw to stop abruptly. 

“What? Isn’t that what they do in American movies when they say ‘act natural’?” the confused bassist asks.

“ _Anyway_ …” the drummer ignores him and continues, “there are two women sitting close to the window that are staring our way.”

So Taka puts on an air of nonchalance and scans the restaurant.

Sure enough, just as Tomoya had said, two women a few tables away are not so discreetly throwing looks their way and whispering excitedly between themselves. They seem to be of college age and are the sort of cute, demure look that’s the Japanese standard. One looks like she’s of mixed blood, her eyes being large and hazel. Too cute for my taste, the singer judges, but perfect for Toru, if his last girlfriend was anything to go by. The singer realises this is his chance to hook up the guitarist.

“I think they’re checking you out, Toru- _nii_ ,” Ryota says, dropping all pretense and waving at them. The wave makes them gasp and bow their heads in greeting.

“One’s so totally your type,” Taka says nudging the guitarist with his shoulder.

But Toru barely gives them a glance before returning to his food.

“Want me to ask them to come join us?” the singer says, nudging him again.

But the guitarist answers: "Just leave them alone" - much to Taka’s disappointment.

The singer frowns.

“By the way, do you even know my type?” Toru pushes back.

Taka answers straightaway without thinking: “You always date the innocent-looking types with pretty eyes, but they always seem to have a fiery temper and can be pushy underneath all that niceness. You like them on the short side because you think it’s adorable. You want someone that isn’t afraid of PDA because you like to cuddle them whenever you feel like.”

This is what gets Toru’s attention. He lowers his chopsticks and listens carefully despite his eyes being firmly on the grill.

“Am I right?” Taka finishes smugly, looking at the other band members for approval.

Tomoya coughs and takes a swill of _soju_. Ryota’s face is a weird mix of amused and confused, like he’s just figured out that the rapper Flo Rida’s name is a tribute to the state he’s from and doesn’t know why it wasn’t immediately obvious.

“Mori- _chan_ ’s right in a way, but…” the bassist strokes his chin.

“But what?”

Taka’s earlier jealousy that Ryota knows something about Toru rears its ugly head and he can hear a confronting tone seep into his voice. Mentally, he tells himself to dial it down.

“You’re right but you forgot one thing,” Toru says, exchanging a look with the bassist before finally turning the vocalist’s way. The rest of his facial expression is serious but his eyes have a twinkle to them.

“I apparently also like them on the oblivious side.”

Tomoya refills his shot glass with more alcohol and, after a thinking pause, figures he should top up Ryota’s glass too.

“What does that even mean?” Taka counters, looking between Toru and Ryota and feeling irritated that he feels like he’s missing something.

Tomoya shrugs his shoulders in a helpless way and takes his shot, Ryota following suit.

Taka lets out a huff and stares down at his abandoned food.

“Look,” Toru says, placing a warm hand on the vocalist’s shoulder, entreating him to look up, “I know you’re just trying to look out for me, but I’m okay, okay?”

Taka peers into the guitarist’s eyes and only senses sincerity. It makes his ruffled feathers deflate instantly. He could never stay irritated at such a kind-hearted person for too long. He nods, and the guitarist squeezes his shoulder.

“Now, let’s eat before the meat burns,” Toru says in a lighter tone, causing them to spring to action to pull the almost charred meat off the grill.

For the rest of the night, they forget about the women and listen to Ryota’s misadventures with his toddler and public toilets as they enjoy eating to their heart's content.

🕐🕐🕐

Some time during the drive home Taka must have dozed off because the next thing he knows he’s awakened by the conspicuous sound of camera shutter.

He works his jaw and his eyes flutter open to see that the car is stationary in their apartment block’s basement garage. Toru is fiddling with his _ketai_ , seatbelt already undone.

Taka shifts up in his seat and stretches his neck.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” the vocalist yawns.

“You look liked you needed that nap,” Toru replies, busy with his phone, “besides, how else can I get a photo of you drooling while you sleep?”

“What?” Taka cries out, his eyes are now wide awake, “Gimme your phone, now!”

Taka lunges over the gearbox but the guitarist has already moved his phone up and away beyond the vocalist’s shorter reach, out the car’s window. He laughs when the vocalist is restrained by his seatbelt.

"Gimme!"

" _Kora_!"

They end up in a wild tangle of limbs, and somewhere in between the tussle Taka’s undone his seatbelt and is within a fingertip’s distance to Toru’s phone. It’s a spirited battle of wills.

Taka is so focused on retrieving the device that he doesn’t realise how close their faces have gotten, and that he’s clambered over the gear box and has a leg wedged between Toru’s. He finally grabs the phone, only achieving it because the guitarist has gone unnaturally still.

Taka cries a victorious “ _Yatta_!” in between heaving breaths, but slowly he becomes aware of their position.

The singer has the phone in his hands between them, but Toru is still so close that he can’t see the whole of the guitarist’s face. He can smell the sweet mint of the other’s breath, which escapes from his bow-shaped lips, and he can feel the rapid rise and fall of the guitarist’s chest. Taka feels the hardness of the other’s thighs against his.

With his heartbeat in his ears, he watches Toru’s lips murmur: “You win”, feels the air with which it’s said caressing his own. His skin breaks out in goosebumps. Suddenly his legs feel like jelly and he quickly climbs back into his side of the car before he loses all feeling in them.

He hands over Toru’s phone silently, afraid to meet his eyes.

They say nothing as their breaths decrescendo back to normal.

The singer’s thoughts are still racing, though, when they step out of the elevator on to their common floor. Out of habit, they stop and linger in the lobby before parting ways.

The vocalist has no idea what just happened, but he knows a line’s been crossed. He looks up to see if he’s the only one still flustered by the situation.

Taka is taken aback when he sees the other’s eyebrows are pinched, as if he’s battling with something internally.

"We good?” Taka asks, dread sluicing down his spine that he’s made the guitarist angry.

But Toru must see the fear in his eyes because his face relaxes. He lets out a sigh and his normal expression returns.

“We’re good,” the guitarist says quietly, and then, placing a hand on Taka’s head: “ _O_ _yasumi._ ”

“ _Oyasumi_ ,” the vocalist responds, leaning into the touch and feeling relieved.

Then they’re off to their separate apartments.

But as the singer brushes his teeth before bed, he remembers the scent of the other’s breath, and the feeling of the other beneath him. The memory of the sensations is so strong it freezes his movements.

It stays with him even as he wills himself to fall asleep after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaddya think? Who else feels like internally screaming at the obliviousness? Let me know in the comments.
> 
> Thanks for reading my lovelies 🙏


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I still feel like a real noob when it comes to writing. I'm not completely happy with this chapter but it will have to do.
> 
> The plot thickens...
> 
> Enjoy.

Of three things, Taka’s been hitherto completely assured of since a young age and has never had occasion to question.

One: that he’s a natural singer and entertainer. All three Moriuchi sons were in possession of their parents’ vocal virtuosity – even Tomohiro, who has chosen to shun the celebrity life. From his mother, Taka had inherited a clear, high-pitched singing style, and talkative charm in addition to her facial features.

Two: that he was made for bigger things than the typical Japanese life. Taka’s bullheaded passion to make his pipedream of making it big in the U.S. come true at all costs is without a doubt his father’s legacy. The flame motif he loves to wear is symbolic of the fire that burns in his veins, propelling him to push further and higher than what his father has achieved.

He cannot even begin to fathom how his mother had made peace with her role as a stay-at-home wife and mother after tasting fame. Watching her teary farewell concert on YouTube makes him almost resentful of his father and society for making her give up her happiness. He certainly wouldn’t have compromised his own. But then he remembers he wouldn’t exist if not for this sacrifice, and no amount of notes and words can ever express his gratitude.

And, lastly, three: his sexuality.

The vocalist is comfortable enough in his masculinity to not blink an eye (figuratively and literally) whenever he asks Ryota to line his eyes with kohl before performances and vice versa. He is known to liberally pepper his friends with hugs and kisses; he is indiscriminate to their gender and cares not a whit that it goes against the grain of standard male behaviour. 

But up until now, Taka’s discerning eyes have only ever affixed themselves on the ‘fairer sex’, so speak. He was, after all, involved in that regrettable sex scandal with an older female that led to his shameful expulsion from his first venture into celebrity: the pre-teenage outfit, NEWS. He’s even run his mouth off in an interview about his preference for ( _ahem_ ) unenhanced breasts.

So when he begins to notice Toru in ways that have apparently flown over his head for over a decade, the vocalist is well within his right to feel freaked out and scramble for alternative explanations. It’s as if the incident in the car had removed a certain filter in his brain and certain fuzzy details are suddenly alarmingly in 4K. 

Take for example the present circumstance.

It’s a situation that has been a norm since the conception of their band. It’s past midnight, and the other members (the ‘children’) have retired home, while Taka and Toru linger back in the studio, eager to hash out the finishing touches to a song they’re writing.

And maybe it’s because they’ve spent the last two hours trying to figure out the guitar riffs, with Toru on the guitar and Taka writing down the chords and notes, that the vocalist becomes hyperaware of the shape and length of the guitarist’s fingers.

It’s not like he’s never paid them attention before. The singer knows they are long and straight – longer than his own short, somewhat kinked digits – but it’s almost as if his eyes have zeroed in on them, like a closeup of a camera during a live. He newly registers how _nice_ they are: even, lean and elegantly boned, unlike the sausage-y fingers that Westerners tend to have. Theoretically he knows he’s held them before: tangled them with his own when bowing to the audience after concerts. But did it occur to him, then, how large Toru’s hands were compared to his own?

Taka distractedly listens to the latest iteration of the pre-chorus riff but all that registers in his mind is how the fingers of Toru’s left hand must be more calloused than his right, since the guitarist prefers using a pick with the latter. He takes advantage of Toru’s downturned head to watch the moving digits, undetected and mesmerised, when a tendril of a thought solidifies: what would they feel like against his own skin …? 

“… _na_? This one or the previous one?”

And just like that, the string of thought snaps, pulling him back to the present.

Taka lifts his guilty eyes towards the guitarist’s and sees them patiently awaiting his response.

“Um, the first one is better I think,” the vocalist lies through his teeth. In reality, he can’t tell the versions apart from each other, or even the Ievan polka, even if his life depended on it.

“Must be,” Toru observes, “Since you didn’t even bother noting down the second one.”

The guitarist rakes his fingers through his growing bangs to get them out his face, and Taka’s eyes automatically follow the action. He slightly shakes his head when he realises what he’s doing.

Had he been so caught up with making the new album and his plan to hook up Toru, that he’s neglected his own – er, _needs_? The vocalist asks of himself, when he finds himself studiously trying to ignore the guitarist’s hands on the steering wheel during the ride home, and the ride to the studio the morning after.

Toru’s hands grip the wheel fairly loosely and Taka all but groans in his head to brake his thoughts when his lateral thinking jumps from ‘grip on wheel’, to ‘grip when … ’

 _Ugh. Maybe it’s high time I find_ myself _a girlfriend_ , he chides himself before he can finish that thought.

The singer reasons that his overtired brain must have somehow conflated several unrelated issues together: Toru, loneliness, his own circumstance, too much time spent together, companionship and its (unexpected) corollary, _sex_.

 _Yes, that must be it_ , Taka thinks as he surreptitiously eyes the other pressing the button for the floor that contains their studio. He takes note of how the taller man uses two slender fingers – his pointer and his middle one.

The vocalist tells himself he’s not dismayed at all when the guitarist tucks his hands into his jacket, after.

🕐🕐🕐

Yet tiredness from a late-night studio session and an early morning after cannot account for Taka’s continued _awareness_ of Toru (for lack of a better word), a few days later.

He’s had a solid eight hours of sleep and is on his second _kan kōhī_ when Toru joins him on the roof of their record company’s building.

Tomoya and Ryota are busy tweaking their parts for the latest song but he and the guitarist have already finished theirs, thanks to the said late-night studio session earlier that week.

Taka is staring at a plane in the cloudless expanse of the sky, taking sips of the chilled coffee, when he hears the sound of a door being jostled open.

Worldlessly, Toru approaches the railing. The guitarist fishes out a cigarette from the pack he keeps in the back pocket of his black jeans, and lights it with the antique gold lighter he carries with him everywhere.

🕐🕐🕐

“This is pretty fancy,” Taka had asked all those years ago, back when his face still stubbornly held on to its puppy fat.

He picks up the gilded device the taller man had used it to light a cigarette and had placed it on the table in front of him.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Passed down from my grandfather,” is the answer exhaled out, along with smoke.

“The one you’re named after?”

“ _Un._ ‘ _Baachan_ told me it was a memento of a precious friend he’d lost.”

“I hope we can be the type of friends that never lose touch with one another,” Taka says, earnest in his youth and grateful for his newfound ‘family’ of a band.

And the guitarist’s eyes, renowned for their normally sleepy or occasionally intense look, soften for the first time.

“ _Boku mo_.”

🕐🕐🕐

“What are you thinking about?” Toru asks, jolting Taka out of his reminiscing.

The vocalist watches the smooth movement of the guitarist lifting the cigarette to his lips and the hollowing of his cheeks as he inhales. Without meaning to, Taka’s eyes follow the line from slender fingers to cigarette to puckered lips.

The scent memory of fresh mint.

“Nothing important,” Taka says absently, licking his lips before he remembers himself.

If his awareness of the other’s fingers was slightly disturbing, the possibility on fixating on the other’s lips sends him to a mild panic.

The vocalist quickly turns his head back to the blue sky and the urban sprawl beneath it.

“You’ve been spacing out a bit lately. Are you sure nothing’s going on?”

From the corner of Taka’s eye, he sees an inhale of smoke and an exhale of it skyward, exposing the column of the guitarist’s neck and the singular mole on it. The other taps a finger against his cigarette to ash it.

 _Kakkoi._ The word echoes between quickened heartbeats that have nothing to do with caffeine. 

And Taka wants to tell the guitarist what’s been plaguing him, but he doesn’t know what all these newfangled emotions are and what to do with them.

Besides, saying “It feels like I’m seeing you for the first time again” sounds strange even to his own ears. So, the vocalist just shakes his head.

“Are you still trying to figure out how to get me a date?” Toru jokes in that dry manner of his.

And Taka has to laugh, given the irony of the question and his thoughts.

“Yeah,” he jokes back, “it’s a hard problem to solve, coz who’d wanna date you?”

Oh, the irony.

“But seriously,” the guitarist’s tone sobers up, “Don’t get mad, but Ryota told me you wanted to see me dating again.”

“Yeah.”

Taka takes another sip from the can in his hand. He starts fiddling with the ring at the top of it when he lowers it, for wont of something to do. 

“I guess I’ve been thinking what a good … friend you’ve been to me,” he starts, wincing at the word ‘friend’, “I just want to see you happy and settled down like the other two are.”

Regardless of the growing turmoil in his head, Taka still believes in these words and the following ones.

“You work so hard and take such good care of us, that it would be good to have someone that cares for you too. Someone to come home to, to share your day with, and to talk about your dreams with. Someone to have a family with because I know you love children,” the singer says, pulling the ring off the can and dropping it inside.

He can feel Toru’s intense gaze upon him and he’s drawn to face the guitarist. Taka doesn’t know what to expect, but seeing sadness on the other face isn’t it and something deep in the smaller man’s chest feels snagged.

After a while, Toru's mouth twists and it’s like he’s come to some sort of conclusion because a look of resignation seeps into features.

“I suppose you’re right,” the guitarist answers.

Taka watches as the other snuffs out his cigarette against the wall beneath the railing and bends down to blow away the ash. The tiny grey fragments are lifted by a light breeze but then fall down, down towards the busy street below.

Toru turns around and leans his back on to the railing. He turns his face towards the singer, his hair haloed by the sun that shines from behind his head. 

_He really is devastatingly attractive_ , the smaller man finally admits to himself.

But then Taka observes perfectly bow-shaped lips part and mutter:

“If it will make you stop brooding, I’ll start dating again.”

And something unbearably heavy settles in his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you catch the reference to my other fic Namesake? 😆
> 
> Thank you always for reading! 😘


	4. Interlude I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a short one - an interlude from Toru's POV. Been busy with all the Christmas celebrations.
> 
> I dunno why it's so much easier for me to write Toru's POV than it is to write from Taka's. I think it's because it's highly likely Toru is an introvert and measured like me, and Taka's more extroverted and just acts without much thinking. 
> 
> IMPORTANT SIDE NOTE: If on the off chance you've clicked on this link because I accidentally and stupidly posted it on my *professional* twitter account, I am SO SORRY. I would advise that you close this tab and run in the other direction. I'm seriously hoping I'm not interesting enough for you to investigate what I do in my spare time.
> 
> Everyone else - enjoy!

It is both a blessing and curse, Toru has come to realise, to have a face whose default expression is bored or otherwise neutral. Those that tend towards frowning are thought of as unapproachable, while those with ‘resting nice faces’ have the misfortune of always being pestered by strangers with requests for directions, or otherwise unwanted small talk.

Toru’s face betrays only the tip of the iceberg of his inner emotions and thoughts. On the plus side, he’s neither thought of as too intimidating to approach, or pestered with idle chit chat. He comes across as calm and measured even though his insides are boiling with rage (but in fairness this does not happen often).

However his neutral mien makes it difficult, also, to show how elated or enamoured he is.

Sometimes this is a blessing. For example, when an irritated Taka’s cheeks slightly puff out and his nostrils flare. Or during the ritual of ending his working days by saying “ _Kaerou_ ” to the vocalist, and the treasured time alone with him on the drive back home. It’s the little things: even just being the first pair of eyes a sheepish Taka seeks when he stumbles on stage or forgets the lyrics (again). It’s times like these that the guitarist thanks his lucky stars that his lovesick thoughts aren’t emblazoned across his face for all the world to see.

Yet at other times, Toru wishes such emotions were easier to communicate. Perhaps then he would escape from the limbo of not knowing if the other was receptive of his affections. Even a negative response would be a conclusion still, and would allow him to move on.

Toru sits with such thoughts as he quietly watches Taka nap in the front seat of his car. The vocalist appears to be worn out from the tiring day - lulled to sleep, too, by a full belly and healthy amount of _soju_. His jaw is loose and any minute now the smaller man may christen the leather upholstery of the seat with drool. The guitarist might love his cars and is a bit of a neat freak, but he appreciates the hard work the singer puts in to helping him run the band and keep the ‘children’ in line much more.

He watches the deep expanding and contracting of the other’s chest and the slow, roving movements of eyes underneath closed eyelids. In repose, the singer looks even younger than the thirty-odd years old he is. His blunt fringe – often left unstyled during ‘ordinary’ days – reminds Toru of a young boy, and the guitarist is unexpectedly struck with the desire to have a real family with this man, and a child that looks like this. Imagined echoes of shared laughter, of music, and of sweet kisses goodnight draw up a deep longing from a hidden well within. 

Inspired, Toru picks up his _ketai_ from the console near the gear box and snaps an image of the singer. The distinctive shutter sound of a photo being taken penetrates the singer’s unconsciousness and his nose scrunches. Long lashes lift and then he is awake. 

The vocalist’s voice is slightly scratchy when he questions why the guitarist hadn’t woke him up. But Toru is not ready to confess to fantasies of an imagined future together and so he deflects with a jest.

He’s similarly unprepared when they end up tussling over his phone, and the smaller man ends up for all intents and purposes on his lap. They are so tantalisingly close – stoking the guitarist’s thoughts towards more baser ones – yet not close enough.

They say that love is friendship lit on fire, and in this moment, Toru understands the truth of it. Suddenly he can’t breathe; he is seized up by how much he wants this man – that he would hand him the world if it were in his power – but also by the sheer impossibility of this wish.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, _despite everything_.

He lets go.

Later, in the elevator, Toru’s façade dams the sinking feeling roiling in his gut that he’d come _that_ close to ruining years of cherished friendship with the vocalist. It is reprehensible to him that in his weakness he’d almost laid waste to years of building towards the band’s dream of making it big. He’d never forgive himself if he had, purposely or not, dashed the singer’s dreams.

Toru worries that the other has guessed at his feelings, and so is surprised when the other, too, wears an expression of apprehension.

Taka’s eyes are wide with concern, almost as if _he_ were guilty of the strange atmosphere that has taken hold between them. But it doesn’t make sense, and wanting to assuage him, Toru assures the singer that all is well although he doesn’t feel it. He places an almost fatherly hand on the smaller man’s head, the gesture an attempt to distance the guitarist from his overwhelming emotions.

Yet it is futile since the sentiments resurge when he gives in and pulls up the photo on his phone while cocooned in the confines of his bed. 

The guitarist’s eyes roam over the beloved features for who knows how long before his private pain becomes too much to bear.

Respecting the other’s wish, Toru presses the ‘delete’ and ‘confirm’ buttons on the screen and, with a face as blank as a Noh mask, vows to do the same with his unrequited feelings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, is anyone cutting onions at the moment? Let me know in the comments. Thank you for everyone that 's kindly commented on the fic so far - hope I can do all your attention justice ❤️
> 
> Edit: If you want more angst, may I point you towards this video AU I've recently made: 
> 
> https://youtu.be/_U3aAoQcI5Y
> 
> Gravity - A Toruka AU MV  
> In which they breakup and realise they may have made a mistake.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for yesterday's short Interlude, I've written another chapter quickly. Thanks for your patience!
> 
> Side note: This is by far the longest conversation I've ever written - I thought it would never end when writing it! 😅
> 
> Enjoy!

It is a little-known fact that Taka’s closest confidante is not within his wide circle of friends, but in fact is his younger brother Tomohiro. 

Taka loves his parents dearly. However, there are certain issues that cannot be understood across a significant generational divide. Besides, at times they could be quite conservative in their views despite their unconventional careers. Unfortunately, his youngest brother Hiroki is not an option either, since he still worships Taka and takes inspiration from him too much for the elder to ruin the image. So, it is the humble and gentle Tomo whose counsel he seeks whenever he feels lost: whose grounded view away from the heady world of celebrity balances his own.

It’s on a rainy Sunday mid-morning that Taka thinks to call him. The vocalist only has to wait three rings before the call is connected. He pushes himself up from his sofa and draws his knees to his chest in the meanwhile.

“ _Nii-san_ , _ohisashiburi_ ,” his brother greets as Taka gets himself comfortable.

“Tomo, _hisashiburi da ne_. How’s work?”

“Yeah good. Same as usual, but you know I like it that way. You?”

“We’re working hard on a new album in between all the tours,” Taka says, inspecting the nails on the hand that’s not holding his _ketai_ and thinking that they need to be trimmed soon.

“Can’t wait to hear it,” Tomo says in the familiar, tranquil tone of his, “No seriously, this girl at work plays all your old stuff all the time on repeat. Would be great if there was new stuff.”

“ _Ehhh_. Does she know we’re related?” the singer laughs.

“No.”

“Figures. You’re so modest.”

Taka can just imagine his brother shaking his head and smiling his trademark shy smile.

The great thing about Tomo, the vocalist acknowledges, is that he doesn’t prod Taka to divulge what’s clearly on his mind until he is ready. It is because of this that the singer dances around the issue that’s weighing on him. In the circuitous small talk that acts as a prelude, he finds out from his brother that their mother had started Zumba classes at the local gym and is impressed by her willingness to try something new. In turn, he tells his brother news of his father enjoying a holiday in Paris with his new girlfriend. She is a divorcée and nice, but that’s all Taka can glean from a brief introduction. They both regularly chat with Hiro so there’s no point in bringing him up.

The small talk eventually dries up and, after a pause, Taka takes a steadying breath to steel himself.

“Tomo,” he starts in _sotto voce_ , “am I really that self-involved that I don’t notice other people around me?”

The line falls silent when the other considers his answer. Taka’s fingers play with the chapped skin on his lips.

“I’m not sure what to say,” is the answer, “You’ll need to provide me with context.”

The singer’s fingers stop and rest on his lips as an image of bow-shaped ones float into his consciousness.

“Lately I’ve been noticing a friend in ways I never have before. Something happened and now I can’t ‘unsee’ them in this new way.”

Taka’s mind helpfully supplies a montage of those lips and a nearby mole close up, fingers curled around a steering wheel, and a pair of eyes that stare at him through a mirror in an elevator.

“Like a romantic way?” his brother’s voice cuts through.

 _Good question_ , the vocalist thinks.

“It’s not quite that yet. But yeah, I’m finding that I’m starting to get really attracted to this friend.”

“What’s the problem though? Sounds like a good development to me.”

The sound of a can being opened and fizz. Coke, Taka would bet. _I should really give him another talking to about unhealthy drinks_ , he thinks distractedly.

“I work really closely with this person,” the vocalist replies instead.

“Ah, _naruhodo_. It will be a problem if something goes wrong,” his brother confirms Taka’s reservations, “But if you both agree from the outset to act professionally no matter what, that should be fine, no?”

“Um, I’m not sure if that’s possible,” Taka frowns, “when I said I work closely with this person, I mean I literally see this person every day. I won’t be able to escape them if something fucks up.”

The singer turns his head and spies a photo frame on a side table of the band after their first ever big live at the Budokan. They were so young back then – he had sported a goatee in an attempt to look older – and have achieved even more in the years after. It reminds him of what’s at stake.

“ _Sou ka_.”

From the other end of the line, Tomo listens as he takes a sip of his drink. He knows his elder brother enough to know that what he’s saying is not really the issue: that the heart of the matter has still not been broached. Even if it’s inconvenient and causes a drama, his brother always has a way of getting his will done. His brother’s tantrums as a pre-teen and teenager were infamous.

“You know, I’ve never told you this but yeah, you can be pretty self-involved,” Tomo says, deciding to try a different tactic.

Taka flinches at the words. He knows them to be true but it still hurts to hear someone else say it.

“It’s what makes you the star you are, but at the same time you’re capable of hurting the people close to you, even without noticing it.”

His brother’s tone is kind but it still feels like an arrow lodged in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Taka whispers.

Outside, the rain intensifies.

“I’m not saying this to make you feel bad, but to help give you perspective. Do you know why I never wanted to be in the limelight? I wanted to be like you since we were little, like the way Hiro still does. But you teased me whenever I tried to sing, because you didn’t want to share the attention.”

“Fuck,” the singer inhales.

He’s always suspected but it’s never been said out in the open quite like this.

“I’m so sorry for being such an asshole. I was a jealous little shit, I know.”

“Never mind about me. I’m happy with my life now and wouldn’t change a thing,” Tomo continues, “But the reason I told you that is so that you understand how blind you can be sometimes, and the power you have over the people around you.”

“I’ll try to be more attentive and considerate from now on,” Taka’s voice wavers and his eyes sting with imminent tears. 

Across a drizzly Tokyo, in an altogether different apartment, Tomo can feel his older brother’s heart breaking. But it needed to be said, and he is glad he has the privilege of being close enough to the singer to say it without giving offence. Still, he hates to think he’s made his brother feel even more down when he knows there’s something already on his mind.

“That aside, it seems like she must be pretty special for you to be so worked up and angsty,” Tomo’s tone brightens considerably.

There is a long silence before he hears his brother speak up again.

“Tomo, it’s actually a he,” Taka confesses, looking up at the ceiling, the continuing rainfall heard as tiny pitter-patters on the roof above it.

And therein lies the problem.

In keeping with his levelheadedness, the singer’s brother does not have a kneejerk reaction to the surprising news and simply lets the information sink in.

“I’ve never had a problem with queer people but it’s different when you realise you’re not as straight as you thought you were,” Taka continues, hugging his knees even closer to his chest, “And I’m slowly growing crazy. He’s everywhere and I’m only starting to realise what all the girls have been mooning about all along.”

Tomo puts down his drink as he puzzles over the problem.

“But you said it’s just a physical thing for now. Can’t you just get someone else to, uh, help out with that, you know – if you wanna explore?”

The even longer pause tells Tomo all that he needs to know. It is most likely not just a physical thing; in all likelihood, his brother must be already halfway in love with this person.

“I could, but I don’t want that. I’ve only been attracted to this one guy,” Taka says, his eyes fixed on the photo frame and the tallest figure in the photo contained within it, “Call me crazy, but I went to the gym to see if it’s a general thing that I’m realising guys can also be attractive but it’s not that.”

The thing is, once you get Taka talking, it is akin to a deluge; words flow out like endless rain.

“He’s … I respect and care for him, a lot. Like, really. So, when you combine that with the physical stuff… I’m scared. Whatever I’m feeling, it’s… I can’t even put it into words...”

It doesn’t take Tomo long, while ironically listening to his brother talk in almost alarming detail about his newfound emotions, to figure out who he's talking about. There are only three guys that his brother would see every day by virtue of being in a band.

“It’s Toru, isn’t it?” he interjects.

A laugh of an almost desperate sort in between the rambling.

“That obvious huh?”

Taka scoffs and considers that he does really wear his emotions on his sleeve.

“I haven’t even told you about the really fucked up part of it all yet.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’ve been pressuring him to get a girlfriend and he finally agreed. After I’ve started having these… feelings. God I’m such an asshole.”

“Even to yourself it seems.”

The brothers laugh and the tension in Taka’s body slowly drains away. The fact he’s been able to unburden himself makes him feel a lot lighter already.

“It will work out. I believe in you,” his brother breathes down the phone, “You’ve always found a way to work things out even though the shit’s hit the fan and most people would have given up. I’m rooting for you.”

The encouraging words help the singer perk up even more so. He wishes he could pull him into a hug; he doesn’t know how his brother can be so generous after being subjected to Taka’s childhood bullying.

“Tomo, _arigatou. Honto ni,_ ” the singer says, infusing his voice with sunshine-like warmth.

“No problem, _nii-san_.”

By the time Taka ends the call, the rain outside has dwindled and the clouds begin to part. Somewhere, a faint spectre of a rainbow begins to form. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry's it's still a sort of 'establishing' chapter. More action in the next chapter, I promise. 
> 
> Oblivious!Taka needed someone to kick his ass into paying attention. Hope you liked my take on who it was and their backstory. Let me know in the comments.
> 
> If I don't update soon, have a safe and happy festive season! I know it really sucks that 2020 isn't the awesome year we were expecting it to be (like the song and the fanservice during the live 😆). But in some ways, I'm glad because the lockdown made me take up writing and led me to meet all you wonderful readers 😄 So many brave, selfless and hardworking people are helping to ensure our world returns to normal; I'm glad I found a way to hopefully make you guys forget about all the problems even for a little while. Thank you so much for your attention 🙏 😘


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I thought I wouldn't have time to write another chapter before the new year, but I got bored since we usually travel this time of the year but we're currently stuck at home like most people.
> 
> Enjoy!

Taka takes his brother’s words to heart and decides to make good on his own word that he will try to be more mindful of the needs of the others around him.

He ends up dining alone that night, in a small and discreet restaurant not too far from his apartment.

His usual habit on such nights would be to call a friend to join him as he tries out a new joint. An extrovert through and through, the singer has always surrounded himself with people and noise. It served him well during his teenage rebellion, drowning out the voices within that goaded him that he was unloved, talentless and on the wrong path. But, as time wears on, he’s come to realise that the never-ending, outside chatter leaves no room for reflection and observation. The voices within have quieted enough through the years such that there’s really no excuse for not turning inward once in a while.

In a partially hidden alcove at the back end of the restaurant, Taka breaks his _hashi_ neatly in half and mutters his gratitude before digging in to his favourite entrée: _gyoza_ covered in cheese and a heavy-handed dusting of _shichimi togarashi._ His mind chews over his earlier conversation as his mouth does.

What else could he have been aware of, if only he got his head out of his own rear end and really paid attention to reality?

What scene would be revealed if he cleared away the cobwebs of inattention and preconceptions?

Taka is well aware that his feelings toward Toru have deepened. But to what depths do and will his feelings extend – a puddle of surface attraction, or an all-consuming ocean – and to what end?

The questions stir his mind into a tumble.

Nearby, a waitress graciously shows a middle-aged couple, probably a few years shy of his parents’ ages, to a table within sight’s distance of the vocalist. Instinctively, Taka tilts his head down to avoid attention. (You never know nowadays; he’s been accosted by a screaming ‘ _baachan_ before, who refused to leave him be until he agreed to a selfie and an autograph.) But they pay him no mind despite spotting him.

He watches as the man gets up and moves seat from across the woman to the one beside her instead. In turn, she moves his _hashi_ , _hashioki_ and napkin. When all’s done, Taka sees that they reach underneath the table for each other’s hand. It makes the vocalist smile to himself.

Then, it is paradoxically Taka who steals glances at the couple as he enjoys his _nabeyaki udon_ and beer at a snail’s pace. It’s so interesting, he thinks, that you can always tell a new couple from the overt displays of affection and heart-shaped eyes they gaze at each other with. But observing the middle-aged couple, it dawns on him that he’s never really witnessed what well-worn love and intimacy looks like; his parents were never the demonstrative type, and by the time Taka grew more conscious of the world around him, their relationship had devolved into icy resentment.

The couple do not exchange many words, and when they do it is in hushed tones. It is like they know each other so well to know instinctively what the other needs, and work harmoniously around each other. The man picks apart what looks to be grilled _sanma_ and drops some wordlessly into her rice bowl; the woman puts up her hand to call over the waitress the second he accidentally drops his _hashi_ on to the floor. He gives her the last piece of _kaarage_ that she’s obviously enjoying; she pushes aside the empty plates and places the side-dishes closer to him so they’re within easy reach. He listens attentively as she talks about her day; her face subtly lights up when he returns from the restroom, as if the few minutes spent apart were a few minutes too much.

The man and woman don’t sneak kisses or laugh, and most of the time do not touch, but Taka slowly becomes aware that what he’s witnessing are not two people but one functional entity, like two trees alongside each other whose roots have grown towards each other underground and have irreversibly entwined. 

All this Taka takes in silently, until the new knowledge collides with flashes of memories of his own experience.

_Tinted glasses and “Pass me some gum too?”_

_A text that enquires of his whereabouts._

_His favourite side-dishes appearing as if by magic in front of him, and the grateful shine of normally expressionless eyes as the singer serves the other some meat before serving himself._

_A loving hand on his head that calms his unspoken dread._

_“If it will make you stop brooding, I’ll start dating again.”_

And, as they couple get up to leave, a soft-spoken “ _Kaerou_ ” overlapping with the thousands of times he’s heard the same word at the end of his days.

Taka gasps when it hits him, and he brings at hand to rub at his chest, as if the warm mouth-feel of the _shichimi togarashi_ from earlier has spread down to it.

He pays for his meal in a daze and somehow makes it home despite the weakness he feels in his knees.

 _Masaka?_ Had he been immersed in this mutual feeling all along that it didn’t register, like a creature of the sea until it finds itself on the other side of the surface and desperately flailing? 

The vocalist peers down the empty hallway towards the other’s apartment in wonder. Then, he swipes his card and a digital twinkle is heard before he pushes the door to his darkened apartment open.

Overhead, the downlights come on automatically and the illumination throws curious shadows around familiar furniture. 

🕐🕐🕐

The observations come to him more easily after that.

The vocalist had half-expected that there be awkwardness in his interactions with the guitarist in the wake of his realisations. But being with the guitarist is as easy and comfortable as slipping into an _ofuro_ of perfect temperature. 

Taka takes careful note of the takeaway cup of long black coffee that awaits him when he climbs in to the passenger seat the next morning. He takes a second to admire how it sits side-by-side to another cup, and how he knows by heart that the other one contains a cappuccino with one sugar. He greets Toru a bright good morning.

During the commute, the singer notices that Toru isn’t fazed at all by the horrendous morning traffic, the extent of which would be expected to infuriate the average person. He also observes that the taller man makes no attempt to speed past amber lights. In fact, Taka slowly becomes attuned to the subtle contentedness that seems to radiate from the other, as if he were actually grateful for the extra time spent alone with just the two of the them.

“Do anything interesting last night?” Toru’s low rumble asks above the quiet music emanating from the speakers. (If one were really paying attention, they would be entertained to find that the music playing is a Justin Beiber hit about questioning motives behind conflicting words.)

“Just dinner outside and a movie,” Taka replies, relishing the warmth of the cup in his hands, which amplifies what he already feels inside.

“Lemme guess – Disney again?”

The corner of Toru’s left lip, the one closest to the singer, lifts a marginal amount, which Taka has come to know as his equivalent of a full-on smirk.

“ _Chigau_ ,” the vocalist denies, a little too quickly.

“Liar,” the guitarist retorts.

Taka laughs underneath his breath.

“How do you know I’m lying?”

The traffic has crawled to a stop so there’s no danger when Toru turns his head completely towards the smaller man’s way. The guitarist’s eyes are somewhat more almond than round – amused – when he responds.

“You quickly reply back and your voice gets just a little bit higher when it’s a small lie. Sometimes you play with your hair to hide your nervousness. But when it’s a big one, you take longer than usual to respond, like you’re making sure nothing gives you away. Except that your neck gets a little flushed and it looks like you’re forcing yourself to look someone straight in the eye. It’s pretty funny, actually.”

To Taka, the fondness in the guitarist’s expression is more obvious, now, than the small multicolored speckles that bathe the car when sunlight hits the small crystal ornament that dangles from the rearview mirror.

He notices it even more when he announces to the rest of the band that he’s been listening to some catchy Disney tunes lately, and is inspired by a certain underwater song to write one about it not being too late to change.

He feels, rather than sees, that beside him, Toru has angled his body to face his own so that he can catch Taka’s eye and grin at their inside joke.

And the singer, who has up until now had a mental image of himself as a singular figure, finds that beneath the surface he’s been inadvertently growing towards the man beside him all the while, and that they are closer to being one tree and not two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The allusions to trees comes from this beautiful literary quote that we used at our own wedding:  
> "Those that truly love have roots that grow towards each other underground, and, when all the pretty blossoms have fallen from their branches, they find that they are one tree and not two.” - Louis de Bernières.
> 
> You can find the full passage here: https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/1233229-love-is-a-temporary-madness-it-erupts-like-volcanoes-and#:~:text=Those%20that%20truly%20love%20have,one%20tree%20and%20not%20two.%E2%80%9D
> 
> Also, I noticed a while back that the verses of Change sound like the verses of Under The Sea! Does anyone else hear this?
> 
> And what do you think of Oblivious!Taka's evolution? Do you agree with the above definition of love? Let me know in the comments 😊


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, many of you would have heard the breaking news that Toru's seriously dating an actress. 
> 
> When I started writing Toruka, I promised myself I wouldn't write them anymore if one or both were in a serious relationship. To be more forthcoming as well, the news really threw me into a spin emotionally too. I know it's ridiculous to be heartbroken over someone I'm not even in a relationship with and I should be happy for Toru. I think the same ability that enables me to write and convey emotions is the reason why I'm more deeply affected than most. For weeks I have been trying to occupy Taka's headspace to write this particular story, and so the news ... well, you'll see in the chapter.
> 
> Enjoy, nonetheless.

It is said by people who have achieved some measure of success that good timing is crucial to make best use of opportunities available.

When Taka is 14, he joins the largest talent management group in Japan. Every day they’re put through rigorous dance training like soldiers for a more outwardly joyous battle. But the loose-limbed teenager is dismayed to find that he is out of sync with the rest of his class. It is not a matter of nailing the right movements; rather, he is a half-second behind due to either inattention or hesitation. Annoyed, he consoles himself with the knowledge that his excellent singing more than makes up for it.

But when the vocalist is 16, he errs on the side of being ahead of his time. He is cast out of his agency and soon out of his own home for shame after being caught in bed with an older female. This forward inertia did however lead to his (decidedly rock; dancing optional) band’s success thus far.

Taka is almost twice that age when the pendulum again swings in the other direction.

🕐🕐🕐

Perhaps a little too satisfied with his own ‘growth’, Taka is lulled by the steady, building rhythm and harmony of his days with Toru, only to be jarred when she makes her entrance into their lives like a Tristan chord.

That is to say, that Toru would finally date someone is not a sudden crash of cymbals that is out of step with the progression of past events. As quiet and unassuming the announcement is, it still stirs in Taka a discordant mix of gladness that the guitarist is actively trying for happiness and an unexpectedly deep sorrow that it is not with himself.

An acquaintance of an acquaintance, she is tall, slim-bodied but voluptuous in the right places, and moves with a grace that suggests a royal lineage. In short, utterly gorgeous.

The development shocks Taka to a standstill: a devastated _fermata_.

🕐🕐🕐

Taka takes advantage of the others’ distraction to silently slip out of the rehearsal studio, the sounds of chatter and chords muted immediately as the door shuts.

He greets some technicians and admin staff with a high-pitched, cheery hello on his way to the common staff kitchen, but at the last second diverts to the rooftop. He does not wish to engage with others when he’s in this mood.

 _You have no right to feel this way_ , half of him berates himself, _jigou jitoku_.

 _But he was mine first_ , the darkest parts of him argue back.

It’s almost unbearably sunny when the singer steps outside. The glare off skylights and other glass buildings makes him squint and seek the shade of some sort of maintenance shed. (He is, thankfully, not yet at the point of self-destructive ‘devil-may-care’-ness that would welcome his skin getting burnt to an almost violet crisp.) He squats in the deepest part of the shadow, collapsing in his limbs in as if a hermit crab, before he pulls out his _ketai_. The face that stares back at him through the black mirror reminds him too much of the one from his teenage years before he met the band; he quickly taps his passcode and activates a mindless game to banish it.

Taka loses himself in fighting other, digital demons, ignoring the occasional pings of notifications, when he hears the rusty hinges of the roof door protest as it opens. Instinctively, he quickly presses a thumb to a side button until the roar of bombs and enraged cries are soundless.

Toru steps out and surveys the surroundings through a pinched expression. A sudden breeze lifts the guitarist’s growing hair and pulls at his loose shirt, accentuating the results of his recent enthusiasm for the gym.

Hidden in the darkened corner, Taka’s body stills and he is conscious of the sudden crescendo of his heartbeat. In his private mind, he imagines the guitarist is searching for him, his features tight with worry and then disappointment when he fails to spot the vocalist. The taller man would sigh, but the singer would wrap his arms around his middle and kiss his startled face in greeting.

A piercing ringtone cuts through the fantasy.

“ _Mayu_ …” the other’s voice intones.

It is always an uncomfortable experience to be privy to a one-sided phone conversation, because the brain is an organic machine of expectations and orchestrated adjustments. You feel discomfited because you expect to hear the other’s reply but can’t.

Protected by the distance and shadows, Taka feels doubly disturbed. He’s reminded of returning home in his youth (“ _Tadaima_!”), wandering through empty rooms and discovering that the faint reply is merely the echo of his own, solitary voice.

🕐🕐🕐

“Ah, _sugeeee_!” Ryota fawns over a photo on his phone, “Tomoya, you’re one lucky bastard. Check out the dinner that’s waiting for you at home!”

The bassist excitedly holds up the photo for everyone to see and pass around. It is nicely arranged array of fresh _sashimi_ , _korokke_ , _hanbagu_ drizzled artistically with sauce, boiled bright vegetables, salad with _wafu_ dressing, rice and homemade _miso shiru_. 

“Michelle’s not a bad cook, but I’m so jealous!” Ryota continues.

Everyone else _ooh_ s and _ahh_ s, and Tomoya beams quietly with pride.

“Speaking of dinner,” Toru starts as his eyes find Taka’s across the room, “I suddenly have plans tonight, so –”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” the singer cuts in, before quickly adding: “I won’t be needing a ride home since I already have dinner plans.”

“Really?” the taller man questions, his eyes examining Taka’s face, which he turns away as he begins to order a nearby mess of sheet music.

“With who?”

“Takeru,” Taka responds with the first name that pops into his head, cringing at how he can hear the slight squeak in his voice as he rushes to get it out.

“I thought you said you weren’t doing anything tonight,” Toru says with a casualness that fools the others but tells the singer he’s on to him, “You were free this morning.”

 _You were free two weeks ago_ , Taka thinks uncharitably in his irritation at being subtly called out, _but look where we are now_.

“He misses my _kaki kare,_ ” the singer replies coolly, which is not exactly a lie.

His best friend is really fond of that dish, but they haven’t talked in more than a month.

“ _Sou ka_ ,” the guitarist replies when the singer stares him down.

And so it goes, for the next few weeks. As much as he can get away with it before it becomes too glaringly obvious to the others, Taka makes excuses to refuse a ride home with the newly-attached guitarist. (Morning rides are bearable, as long as Taka cuts back on the caffeine and lets his sleep-sluggish mind operate on autopilot a little longer.)

 _Kenta’s called me out for_ karaoke _tonight._

_Aimer wants to go over a new song she’s writing._

_Shota wants to hang out and watch the latest One Piece together._

_That Takeru is really getting clingy lately – not sure what’s going on with him – better make sure he’s not lonely._

But on the other nights, when Taka knows that offering another flimsy excuse would arouse suspicion, he can’t escape being entrapped in the car with mere inches between him and the other. Whereas the crawl of traffic was welcome in the past, it is now a seemingly endless submersion in the increasingly dark water of his thoughts.

Taka watches detachedly through his tinted glasses, as if underwater, as he mimics the familiar gestures and rituals of their drive home. It is a strange, distorted unreality. Once in a while, the other turns and faces him, his mouth moving and head tilted in question. Slowly, the singer moves his head in a vague gesture that gives the impression he’s listened, and placating but ultimately meaningless bubbles of words issue from his mouth. With difficulty, he pries his eyes from the other’s and tries to ignore the pressure that bears down on him from inside and out.

One night in the car, a call comes through the speakers.

The pressure in Taka’s ears burst and, if he thought listening to a one-sided conversation is uncomfortable, being made to listen with crystal clarity to a full conversation he'd rather be not privy to is downright excruciating. The singer's mind swims, thrashes about for a raft of ignorant relief. His fingers clench painfully, wedged between his thighs and the leather car seat. He wants - needs _–_ to find a way to escape the cacophony of his situation.

The dissonant noises in his head build and build until later that night, he hesitates as he stands outside the other's closed door, where he is illuminated by a hallway light. In his hand he grips on to a spare key he's fished from the back of a drawer. 

_It's not too late to turn back_ , the vocalist's inner voice of reason shrieks, _before you do something that you'll regret_.

But then the light in the hall shuts off, bathing him with darkness and his mind with a welcome silence.

The ominous scrape of a key and turning of a lock. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided that at this point of this story, Intentions will incorporate The Virtue of Shadows and Your Vice is As Good As Mine as interludes. I've included them in the following chapters for your convenience.
> 
> If you've read them before, I hope you still enjoy rereading them with the added context of Intentions as their back story. I know some of you might think it's a cop out and disappointing that I'm reusing old material. But I'd like to give me some mental space while I sort out my own feelings. 
> 
> Currently, I'm not sure if I want to continue writing Toruka but I am committed to finishing Intentions, however long it may take. Thank you for understanding 🙏


	8. Interlude II - The Virtue of Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The interludes take place in the few weeks and months after the last chapter.
> 
> Sorry if you've read them before.
> 
> Warning: explicit sex scene ahead.

> Show me a man without a vice, and I’ll show you one without virtue. – Pittacus Lore.

Everyone has their vices, Taka supposes.

Some people are given to excessive drinking, some to gambling, and others to compulsive shopping habits. Some vices are socially acceptable. Like smoking, which the singer thinks looks alluring and would love to indulge in, but – alas – his voice takes precedence. You could even say that working hard beyond one’s limits on a daily basis was a vice, if their culture hadn’t warped this into a national virtue.

But some vices are best kept in the shadows.

Like the one that has him discretely unlocking the other’s door, at an hour way past one at which even the hardest working salary-man would go to bed.

Taka slips off his shoes and quietly steps up from the _genkan_ on to the polished wooden floor.

The silent inside of the apartment is a murky blue-black, lit dimly by a streetlamp beyond the balcony. The darkness doesn’t phase him, however; he knows from experience to avoid the sharp, glass edges of the ornamental, modern fireplace, and to not bump his shins against the scattered ottomans.

He knows especially not to collide into the side table, on which he knows there to be several photo frames stood.

When he reaches the heavy mahogany coffee table, he unpockets his _keitai_ and keys. He carefully sets them down, not wanting to scratch the wooden surface.

A moment of reconsideration when he hears the approach of a lone car in the street. He pauses and watches as its headlights create a momentary play of light and strange shadows on the walls and furniture. The brief flash of light brings him to his senses; it’s probably a graveyard shift worker on his way home. _You know_ , his mind whispers, _where you should be_.

The light glints off the silver rims of the photo frames, and the sight is almost enough to make him double-think.

But then the car - its light and with it, his reason – passes. The room is again plunged in darkness, and the craving resurges from within and sets him in motion. Deftly he crosses the room, down the short hallway and finally into the room at its end.

Here, away from the street and any lamps, it is utterly black. The room is almost soundless, save for the soft exhales of the sole occupant on the bed. 

Blindly, Taka shucks off his shirt and his pants, and crawls on his hands and knees onto the bed. He doesn’t stop until he hovers over the other, who sleeps on his side. And it’s probably telling, of how many times _this_ has occurred, that the other doesn’t even rouse until Taka begins to press a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck, and when the other turns on to his back, down his naked chest.

“Wha-?” the other murmurs sleepily, his already deep voice roughened with sleep. The awakened man lifts his head slightly to regard his assailant, but lowers it when he realises what is happening.

The question is left answered as Taka makes his way down to the light line of hair past the other’s belly button. Without ceremony, he hooks his fingers on to the elastic of the other man’s boxers and pulls them down just enough to reveal his still-soft sex. Taka takes a moment to nuzzle it with his nose, breathing in the clean musk of it, the scent making his mouth water. He opens his mouth and lets his warm, moist breath waft over it. Above him, the other man groans. The sound electrifies Taka.

“ _Chotto_ -,” the man protests, but any words that would have followed are lost when the vocalist begins to lick stripes up and down the rapidly hardening member. Taka hears a strangled grasp when, on a downwards pass, he thinks to continue south to gently suckle on the sensitive skin of the other’s scrotum.

There’s no mistaking, then, that the other man is fully awake when Taka feels gentle hands manoeuvre his head towards the other’s awaiting cock. And he’s all too willing to give it the attention it needs, but first -

“Say it,” he commands the other, grazing his lips against the swollen and exposed head, but refusing to give in to what the other wants. Silence; the other merely tightens his hold of Taka’s hair. In return, the singer digs his fingers in where he grips the other’s hips, with a pressure he knows will leave marks. Still nothing.

“Please,” the other man finally begs, when Taka threatens to lift his head away. And that’s all that the singer needs, for the moment. Pleased, he licks one last stripe up the other’s cock before he engulfs it with his mouth. This time they both groan.

Taka feels the other’s fingers cycle between tightening and relaxing in his hair, in time with the bobbing of his head up and down the shaft. He loves the pleasure-pain of the almost-harsh tugs he feels whenever he pulls back to focus only on the tip. This is where the man beneath him is the most sensitive, judging too from the tangy droplets that escape the slit whenever Taka lingers there. Pretty soon, the vocalist has parked himself at the spot, and uses his dominant hand to continue stimulating the rest.

He loves this; loves the feeling of the other’s legs quaking as his control withers, the quiet sounds of the other’s pleasure, but most of all, the feeling that the other needs _this_ and _he_ can provide it.

Taka is luxuriating in the heady sensations when he is abruptly pushed off as the man beneath him struggles to an upright seated position. He lifts up on to his knees as the other removes his boxers the rest of the way. When he’s done, the vocalist sees through the dimness that the other’s eyes are heavy lidded and his mouth is ajar as he pants. The vocalist revels in the desperate look leveled at him, and him alone. It makes his own cock twitch at the attention.

Slowly, hands cup the backs of his knees and he is pulled up to an eager mouth that greets him with a deep kiss. The singer brings up his hands to tangle them in the other’s hair, loving the other’s unique taste: a smoky dark chocolate the singer can’t get enough of. At the periphery of his focus, he feels the hands on his knees slide up the back of his thighs to start massaging his buttocks. He knows where this will lead and his legs are starting to quiver in anticipation.

Taka moans into the kiss when he feels his cheeks being parted and the tip of a finger prodding at his hole. It circles around it a few times before slowly sinking itself in, joint by joint until it can go in no more. The slickness of the lube that coats his insides from his earlier preparation makes the breach all too easy. 

“ _Unnnnn_ ,” he hears himself cry, as he throws his head back at the welcome intrusion.

“You’re already so ready for me,” the other man observes, the rumble of his voice Taka feels where their chests are pressed together. In response, the singer rocks his hips backwards greedily trying to take in more of the digit. A second, and a third digit make their way in, twisting and spreading, and Taka is almost dizzy with the rush of blood southward. The fingers curl forward and the singer can’t help the guttural sound that leaves his mouth when their tips scrape against _that_ area. He pitches forward, grinding his cock against the other’s. 

Taka opens his eyes that he hadn’t even realised had fallen shut, and stares down at the other’s upturned face. He knows that the other man wants, what he’s silently pleading for, but the vocalist has come here for a reason. 

“Tell me you need me,” he says, when he directs the other’s lips onto the juncture of his jaw and neck, where they proceed to suck before opening to lightly scrape teeth against the skin.

“I need you,” the other exhales before moving on to the vocalist’s other side and repeating the treatment.

Not once have the fingers inside Taka have stopped their ministrations and the singer is slowly losing his mind. They press even more firmly inside, to punctuate the other’s next words: “Please, I need to be inside you.”

Taka feels his himself leaking incessantly in the cramped space between their bodies, and decides he can’t wait any longer. He removes one hand from the other’s hair, and uses it to gather his precum, which he spreads down the other man’s shaft, mixing it with the other’s. The man he straddles reads his intentions and slides out his fingers. He places a kiss on the vocalist’s cheek, and then on his forehead, almost as if he knows how bereft the smaller man feels when the fingers are gone. 

Taka rises up and positions himself so he feels the other’s head at his entrance. He places his hands on the other man’s shoulders and tries his utmost best to keep his eyes open and locked on the other’s when he slowly sinks down. The fingers on his hips curl as he takes the other in, bit by bit. It pleases him to no end when he sees it is not he whose eyes fall closed first, and whose eyebrows furrow at the intense feeling.

“ _Hnnnnnn,_ ” the other man groans when he’s fully seated. Their mouths find each other again, and they wrestle with their tongues while they both adjust to the feeling. The singer’s mind swirls at the intoxicating mix of smoke and chocolate.

After a while, Taka cants forward and begins to roll his hips. The undulating movement causes the other’s shaft to slide partway out and then back in. It makes the man beneath him hiss in pleasure and he moves his hands to cup the smaller man’s cheeks. For a while, the other is happy to let the vocalist ride him at his own pace.

Soon, however, the momentum builds, and Taka feels arms wrapping around his waist for leverage as the patience of the man beneath him grows thin and he begins to thrust himself upwards, deeper into the singer’s body. Taka makes a slight adjustment with his hips, and suddenly the thrusts are hitting right against where he wants them to and he’s seeing stars. Overwhelmed, he cries out and stops his own movements, while the other takes over.

“ _Motto_ ”, Taka whimpers when their mouths disentangle.

Without warning, the other man slides himself out and pushes the singer backwards to lie on the bed. He grabs hold of the backs of the smaller man’s thighs and pushes his knees up and back until they’re almost pinned the mattress. He quickly realigns himself and then, within a space of a breath, he’s back inside. This time the thrusts are much deeper, and precisely aimed at the place that makes Taka’s sense of control unravel like a spool of thread that rolls away towards the precarious edge of a table. The singer’s blunt fingernails claw helplessly at the other’s back as a tingling feeling begins to rapidly build in his groin.

From where he lies, Taka watches as a droplet of sweat rolls off the other man’s face and on to Taka’s chest. The other man’s eyes never leave his, seeming to drink him in, making a warm feeling erupt in the place where the droplet had landed.

 _This man_ , the singer thinks, _at least this man needs you this way._

And suddenly the distance between them is too much to bear. Taka uses one hand to bring down the other man’s face down to his, where he proceeds to pour all his gratitude ( _and perhaps something else_ , his mind whispers) into a desperate kiss.

“Tell me again,” he begs when their mouths part, his spine arcing up off the bed and the tension in his muscles reaching almost fever-pitch.

“I” – thrust – “need” – thrust – “you,” the other man moans back, voice wavering as he accelerates towards the end.

Taka feels the crest of his orgasm fast approaching and all his limbs begin to shake uncontrollably at seeing the man above him coming apart. At last, the singer puts a hand on himself, stroking furiously. _Just a bit more_ , he internally pleads. He’s absolutely delirious with pleasure, his concentration narrowed down to the delicious contractions in his lower half, when he thinks – hopes – he hears:

“And only you.”

And Taka falls off the edge into the sweet, dark abyss. This ecstasy is what he’s come here for...

The thread of his attention is brought back only just in time to watch the last shudders of the other’s completion.

Something dangerous catches within the vocalist’s chest at the thought that he’s partially responsible for the utter bliss that graces the other man’s handsome face. He is enthralled by the sight, but if he were in full possession of his senses, he would be alarmed. For now, however, he chooses to close his eyes and focus on the pleasant fatigue that weighs down on his limbs.

Afterwards, the man above him collapses onto the vocalist, who gingerly brings his hands up to cradle the other man’s head to his chest.

“ _Otsukare_ ,” Taka whispers into his ear, as he runs his fingers through the other’s sweaty hair. A tired ‘mmm’ and a press of lips to the singer’s shoulder is all the response he gets.

He continues stroking the hair beneath his fingertips, long after the other falls back asleep and the pleasant fatigue the smaller man feels fades into a familiar numbness.

🕐🕐🕐

The living room is tinted a dark orange when Taka reemerges and he no longer requires his memory to navigate the space.

He pads quietly and directly to the mahogany table, where he picks up his _keitai_ and keys, placing the latter into his back pocket. Sliding a finger to unlock the device, he quickly checks his notifications and is unsurprised to see a slew from Instagram. He works his jaw and sighs, knowing that all the Likes in the world are a poor shadow compared to what he really craves. He pockets the phone.

At this hour, more and more cars pass by - the earliest of salarymen on their way to work.

Taka stands perfectly still for a moment, watching the shadows from their movement slink over the furniture and walls and disappear into the orange-brown that bathes the room. 

He tries to avoid it, but his eyes are drawn anyway to the side table to his right.

Framed in silver are various memories of the apartment’s owner and a brown-haired beauty with eyes that turn into half-moons when she smiles. There’s no denying that they make a striking pair. Taka wants to turn away, but something in the vocalist tells him to sear the sight into his brain, if he truly wants a fighting chance at ridding himself of this thing that calls him to this place in the dead of the night.

 _You are not needed_ , the smiling faces remind him, _a trifling convenience taken only because freely offered._

So, he continues to stand and stare, until the shadows in the room are no longer and the glare from the rising sun forces him to eventually turn away.

Everyone has their vices, Taka supposes.

The singer slips on his shoes and is gone with a click of the front door, before his one awakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of this, now that it's been preluded by the Intentions story? 
> 
> Let me know in the comments.


	9. Interlude III - Your Vice Is As Good As Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry if you've read this previously. 
> 
> This chapter's not explicit.

> And from where should the light enter, for,  
> The wound of my heart cannot be seen.
> 
> \- Zubair Ahsan

Toru is still a _shougakusei_ thefirst time the stray begins to loiter around their house - an old _machiya_ that's been in the family since the time of his great-grandfather.

He is feeling hot and sticky, even after wolfing down a strawberry-flavoured _kakigori_ as an after-dinner treat. His elder brother has commandeered their household’s one working electric fan, claiming that he needs it most since he's studying for important entrance exams. So Toru, who has already developed an indifference for schoolwork anyway, makes his way outside into their back garden to avail of the evening breeze, if any.

He is sitting on the cool stone bench, short legs idly dangling while he gazes up at the dark crawl of clouds, when he hears the faint crunch of leaves. Startled, he turns his curious eyes toward the disturbance and finds a pair of yellow ones returning his stare.

Under the shine of an almost-full moon, the intruder reveals itself to be an old cat with ruffled, midnight fur. Its lack of a collar suggests to Toru that it doesn't have an owner and, judging by its extreme leanness, that food is hard come by on the streets. The bright eyes regard him with a healthy amount of suspicion and the creature remains crouched in the bushes in a protective stance. Yet Toru can't help but read in its ongoing stare a silent entreaty to be fed.

He knows that there's leftover _yakizakana_ inthe fridge that likely no one would care about if it were to go missing. Excited, he slides off the bench, thinking to fetch it. But his slippers clap loudly on to the ground and the sound frightens the cautious feline. It disappears soundlessly into the shadows before it can get the meal it obviously needs.

Once he gets over his shock, Toru berates himself for being so careless. He is saddened when he thinks it is the last he'll see of the creature. But to his surprise, it returns the next night, and the night after that, until he slowly begins to think of it as his.

🕐🕐🕐

Toru leans with his forearms on the rails of his balcony, drawing out the last few dregs of his cigarette to calm the craven shake of his fingers. At this witching hour, the street below is silent in contrast to the tumult of his mind. As if on automatic, his body cycles through the familiar movements of raising the slender stick to his mouth, inhaling and savouring the mouthfeel of the smoke, before he exhales it into the still, humid air. He knows, deep down, that this exercise is no use; the nicotine in his bloodstream is not the hit he needs.

He closes his eyes and in between his churning thoughts he remembers the manky old cat of his youth. Behind his eyelids, the memory of its watchful yellow eyes is still vivid as the afterimage of the streetlamp he faces. He feels the ghost of its fur rubbing against his shins and reminisces the warm weight of its bony body on the infrequent occasions it willingly leapt into his arms. In those rare moments, he would rake patient fingers through its knotted fur, untangling it, while humming a tune underneath his breath. 

But in spite of the trust he had slowly gained from feeding it night after night, the cat had retained a wildness that refused to stay still for too long and be doted on. Once, trying to keep it with him for just a bit longer, the creature had twisted in his hold and its nails had drawn the young Toru’s blood. After, he had received half a dozen shots to ward off any disease that might have festered in the wounds. To this day he harbours a distaste for needles, but he knows they were for his own good.

Toru is staring at the faded scars on the insides of his forearms when the silence of the night is broken by the metallic slide of the balcony door.

He turns his weary eyes and finds an pair of bright but inscrutable ones staring back. The other pauses at the divide between the balcony and the apartment’s interior, one hand still grasping the door’s handle. He is darkly swathed in an oversized shirt and baggy pants that draw attention to what can be seen of his petite frame. The other watches wordlessly as Toru turns his back and crushes the end of his cigarette into an ashtray on the balcony’s ledge.

Toru knows to keep still while he waits. He doesn’t dare to even move the weight of his body from one foot to the other, afraid of the rustle that his tracksuit pants might make. Gripping the rails before him, he peers upwards at a waxing moon that is sliver shy of being full. 

His patience is rewarded when he hears the scuffle of feet behind him, and soon slender arms snake their way around his waist and he feels the warm press of the other’s forehead against his spine. He wants so badly to turn around; to bury his fingers in the other’s hair or rake the backs of them down the soft skin of the other’s cheek, to finally rid them of their shake. But his ears ring with echoes of a harshly whispered ‘Don’t’, sharper than any slash of a claw. So Toru closes his eyes again, helpless against the breath he feels through his thin shirt. 

Eventually, he hears the other’s quiet request: “ _Onegai_ ”, and it finally begins, again.

🕐🕐🕐

The first time it happened, Toru had been delirious with happiness that years of waiting had finally come to an end. The timing was a bit inconvenient, he had thought, but he was willing to shirk off a fledgling relationship and give himself fully to the other. 

It was with such rude shock, then, that he had awoken to an empty bed, and later, had been summarily dismissed by the other, in public no less. Hurting and confused, he had spent many weeks withdrawn and had kept his answers to a curt minimum when needed at meetings. At their lives, he would stick to his side of the stage, leaving it only to reach the safety of Ryota’s whenever the other ventured near. And on the car rides home, he would train his eyes unwaveringly on the road and crank up the music to a volume that did not permit easy conversation; not that the other would ever think to start one.

He had finally come to a conclusion later, that it had been a one-off event to be swept under the metaphorical carpet. Under the worried gaze of their bandmates, he and the other eventually formed an unspoken and uneasy truce to continue as before. He convinces himself that it wouldn’t have worked out, anyway.

Still, needing distraction, Toru decides to continue his relationship, finding consolation in the easy rituals of going on dates, giving each other presents and other such fluff. In the light of day, they made it easy to forget.

🕐🕐🕐

He is therefore unprepared when, seemingly out of the blue, it happens a second time.

By the third time it happens, he’s worked out the rules. With the rejection fresh in his mind, he makes some of his own. 

_Never again_ , he decides, as he slides photos into silver frames that remind him of needles and the need to ward off any residual emotion that festers in his heart’s wound. During sunlight hours, they keep his thoughts off the nightly happenings. They don’t do him any good, though, when midnight comes around and his fingers began to itch for something - someone - out of reach. 

🕐🕐🕐

In the darkness, Toru is careful to keep his touches light. He’s learnt from that painful lesson to not to let them linger long enough for them to be deemed a caress. He abides by the other's rules to move his fingers always in service of the other’s pleasure, but no more than that. He mechanically repeats whatever the other commands and moves his lips wherever they are directed. 

_You are no more than a means to an end_ , Toru thinks when he’s encased in the balmy cavern of other’s mouth, _just a way to satisfy the other’s need to be wanted_.

Yet sometimes Toru thinks he spies a certain look that creeps into the other’s face, when he’s buried deep within him and he’s using the movements of his body to communicate what he’s not willing to admit and what the other doesn’t want to hear. The other’s eyes roam his features, the almost-tenderness in them making Toru hope an admission is near.

But inevitably, a hand brings his face down to the other’s and the words are swallowed up in a desperate, dirty kiss that reminds him of the truth of what this _thing_ is. Any admission that happens is only Toru’s, which he whispers only when the other’s lost to the world while in the final throes of pleasure; only when he can plead insanity in the heat of the moment.

Afterwards, Toru collapses on to the other. Again, he knows to remain very still and he carefully adjusts the depth and timing of his breathing to feign sleep. He presses his ear on the other’s chest and he strains to find any meaning in the heartbeats that calm down to a lullaby. And, for a brief moment, Toru allows himself to long for the day when he can run his patient fingers through the other’s hair, and they can untangle the impossible knots that lie between them. 

He offers little to no resistance when he feels the other slide out from underneath him, merely tucking in his forearms underneath his chest, his heart. 

He knows by now to not lay claim to something that was never his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for re-reading, or no problem if you didn't.
> 
> I never expected to link Intentions with these last two fics, but they seemed appropriate given the strange mood I'm in. I think they work with Intentions because they were deliberately written vaguely. I wasn't sure if the story would end happily when they were stand-alone pieces; I'm not sure if Intentions will end happily either.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I surprisingly woke up this morning and had an urge to continue this story.
> 
> I have no motivation to pursue Toruka stuff any more, but I guess the rhythm of writing regularly is still pretty strong. We're heading towards the end game though ...
> 
> Enjoy.

How does one extricate themselves from an impossible situation of their own making?

Why would the other even consent to their nocturnal trysts, if he had someone else?

What do the trysts say about himself - someone who knowingly intrudes in another relationship and shirks off any responsibility in the daylight hours?

How long could they sustain this perversion of their friendship before something had to give, and what would he be left with at the end of the inevitable implosion?

These are the difficult questions that Taka knows he should be asking of himself: unanswered questions that fester like insidious rot in the murky corners of his mind. He is keenly aware of them but refuses to give them the light of day – knows that they lurk around the same precipice he’d fallen off as a teenager, the same well from which the voices that question his worthiness as a human issue forth. The roar of success was usually enough to drown such voices out. But he realises, now, that they will never truly be gone, and will continue to resound if he keeps still.

So, he keeps himself ever moving, like a spinning top swerving from one diversion to the next. He throws himself into composing songs with a great many others, barely resting after finishing one before jumping headlong into the next. He packs his social calendar to the brim with new restaurants and activities to try out with new friends of friends: people that don’t know him well enough to be alarmed by the furious, punishing pace with which he runs from himself.

The others don’t know what to make of the frenzy. To Taka, they seemed glad at first that the singer hadn’t felt burdened by being the only unattached member of their group. They were relieved when Taka accepted their domestic reasons for withdrawing from social activities with a bright smile and a dismissive wave. Over time, however, the vocalist is sure they’ve put two and two together, and realised that his increasingly plastic smiles and visible exhaustion from keeping himself busy are correlated with the unacknowledged, simmering tension between him and their guitarist, despite their best efforts to maintain an outward show of normalcy.

And Toru himself.

It is highly ironic to Taka that he’s has reached such a deep level of physical intimacy with the guitarist at the expense of their emotional one. Every fevered kiss stolen in the dead of the night, every burning brush of their bodies that ends in ecstasy is another shadow that hangs over their heads during the day. If they were two trees whose roots grew towards each other’s in the past, a shrouding darkness now covers them both, the lack of sunshine causing their roots to shrink back in self-preservation. The sincere sentiments that the vocalist feels, he banishes to the same hidden recesses that harbour the questions that plague him. Genuine words shrivel in the yawning gulf between them.

Each morning after, the vocalist swears to himself that this time has been the last. He staves off his craving to be with the other by feeding Mayu with several ideas of dates to take the guitarist on - ones that somewhere in an alternate universe he’d be enjoying instead. She thinks of him as their greatest supporter, never once suspecting the treachery that unfolds as night falls and she’s not around.

 _You vowed to do whatever it takes to make Toru happy_ , Taka argues with himself, _he should be allowed to settle down without your interference_.

Yet Taka only has to sense an inkling of hunger from the other: a lingering look when the others are preoccupied, a daring invasion of his personal space in a crowded elevator, before an answering urge in his loins makes it intolerable to keep away. A sick side of him feels happy that the other is complicit in this hedonistic but self-destructive behaviour; the better side of him mourns. 

Then, before he knows it, he winds up worshipping the other’s body with his mouth again, basking in the headiness of being needed and begging to be made to scream so loud that it silences the voices that say he isn’t. 

🕐🕐🕐

His brother Tomo is easy enough to brush off by claiming that he’s inundated with touring and finishing up the new album. In their brief chats, he fails to mention the absolute clusterfuck he’s in. His brother intuits that there’s something awry but respects the boundary Taka has built around the issue that keeps others’ and his own questions firmly away.

Takeru, on the other hand, doesn’t.

“Alright, spill it,” the actor orders, as he closes his front door after seeing Ryuu, Keisuke and Dori out.

Taka sits at the dining table, staring without seeing, at the sprawl of tiny plastic figures of zombies and combatants across a gameboard that lays on it. He and Dori had won the game, but it was all thanks to the latter’s cleverness; Taka still isn’t sure he’s fully understood what the rules were.

“Spill what?” the vocalist deflects swiftly, beginning to gather the figurines and game cards.

He feels the heat of Takeru’s unwavering gaze on him. He hears a sigh before the actor pulls out a seat and carefully slides himself on to it.

“I love that we have another person to even out the numbers for board game nights, but I highly doubt that the reason you’ve become a regular member is because you actually enjoy them.”

 _Trust Take-pin to be so logical and to cut through the bullshit_ , Taka thinks almost amusedly. The normally fastidious actor’s pursuit of the truth is serious enough to ignore the half-assed way the vocalist is stacking the cards, some upside-down and/or back-to-front, and shoving them back willy-nilly into the box from which they came.

Takeru is probably the second-closest person to Taka following Tomo, barring anyone from the band. The singer had wanted to delay this talk until he’d successfully dealt with the situation, but it doesn’t appear likely in the near future.

“And while I know you love going to Disneyland and Disneysea, going to both every month is bordering on unusually _otaku_ -like behaviour. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve also been singing a certain song about denial from the Hercules movie every time we go to _karaoke_.”

Taka looks up from where he’s replacing the lid on the box and sees that the actor has one eyebrow lifted in a rather unimpressed fashion.

“Who are you pining over now?”

The smooth, honey-sweet Japanese whiskey they were taking shots of earlier had kept the singer’s inner turmoil at bay in the presence of the others. But currently the alcohol works to loosen his burdened tongue. The other’s face morphs into a concerned expression when the typically loquacious vocalist can’t seem to find the right words. He chokes back his rising frustration.

“Are you okay?” the actor asks gently.

These magic words never fail to make anyone in immense pain shatter.

Hot tears pool unexpectedly in the vocalist’s eyes and he stops moving altogether. The months of holding up a cheery façade to mask his privately conflicted heart catch up to him.

“Oh, Taka-pin,” he hears the other man murmur.

A creak of a chair before Taka is enfolded in a hug. The warmth of the other’s body and the soft “ _Yosh_ , _yosh_ ” while his head is patted repeatedly gives his body permission to release all of its tension, if only temporarily. Near-silent tears fall in a torrent as he allows himself to be comforted.

Takeru barely makes out one recurring name amid the quiet sobs.

It surprises him but this cipher of a name decodes his dear friend’s puzzling behaviour of late. The pieces of information rearrange themselves in his logician’s head, making sense of laughs that are too loud and frequent to be true, the dark circles beneath his friend’s eyes and the haunted look that creeps into them when he thinks no one is looking.

Suddenly the actor feels a strong, protective instinct for this smaller man he’d once described as an almost girlfriend, lover or wife. He’s hugged the singer before, but never such that he can easily smell the pleasant, clean scent of the other’s shampoo and can feel almost every rib of the other’s against his; the irony of the experience makes him purse his lips.

When the sobs have subsided, Taka pushes himself away and wipes his sodden face with the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He stubbornly looks downwards to avoid eye contact. It breaks the actor’s heart to see him this way.

“Does he know?” Takeru prods lightly.

The vocalist swallows down the remainder of his tears and shakes his head sidewards.

“You need to tell him before your chance slips away,” the actor says, cupping Taka’s chin with a warm hand and tilting his face so that he grudgingly lifts his eyes.

To Takeru, Taka’s eyes have never as been beautiful as when he beholds them now. They shine with unshed tears that cling also to the long lashes that frame them delicately. In another lifetime, he would have told him this, but he had thought the vocalist straight and had graciously accepted that his own chance was near zero.

“Trust me, I know how the unrequited thing feels,” the actor commiserates, slowly withdrawing his hand.

Taka searches his friend’s eyes, but finds they are quickly averted when he peers deeply into them. His brother’s words come back to him, then, about unknowingly hurting the people closest to him.

“Don’t tell me…?” he starts.

“Uh… yeah,” the slightly taller man coughs, leaning back on to his chair and running a hand through the hair at the back of his head.

“ **Holy** **shit** , I had absolutely no idea,” the vocalist croaks, “Fuck, do you still…?”

“No, no, no,” Takeru responds, both hands in the air, “Don’t worry! _Mou daijoubu_. That ship has long since sailed.”

“I’m still very sorry,” Taka offers honestly, before despairing: “Dammit, why am I so dense?!”

The other laughs embarrassedly and they lapse into a contemplative silence. In the interval, Taka’s memory sparks with this revelation; he remembers catching a more-than-casual brush of fingers when passing cards and a furtive exchange of looks.

“Keisuke?” he ventures, hesitantly.

A sweet blush colours his friend’s cheeks and spreads down his neck, past his signature black, knitted turtleneck.

“I approve,” Taka laughs through his tears, “he’s almost too beautiful to be a man.”

“I’m glad you do,” the actor says quietly when he’s composed himself. He fiddles with a loose thread in his turtleneck as he chooses his next words carefully.

“I’m serious, though - you should tell him. Regardless of what happens, you will feel a lot better when it’s out there and not bottled up. Then he can cut off your hopes cleanly. Otherwise, your whole friendship will unravel more than it probably has.”

🕐🕐🕐

The next night, with Takeru’s encouragement in his ears, Taka summons the courage to finally confess in order to force the whole situation to its dénouement.

He strides down along the hallway that connects his apartment to Toru's.

The singer is so sick of the deceit and heartache; he longs to clear the air and breathe honest words for once. Better to stop running and face the situation head on.

He unpockets the spare key to the other’s door and frowns when it does not enter the lock as smoothly as it should. Then, the lock fails to open when he twists the key in the usual manner.

He tries once, twice.

By the third time, he receives the message loud and clear: his opportunity has passed him by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who saw Takeru's reveal and that ending coming? Let me know in the comments ❤️


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Monday, another chapter. It was so good to see Taka if only briefly during his Neko cover. I hope he's used this weird pandemic situation productively to practice his simultaneous guitar playing and singing more.
> 
> Enjoy!

In Tokyo, you’re never not within a hundred metres of a train (or subway) station. A lost foreigner need only to stumble upon the nearest one to reorient themselves according to the vast web of intersecting service lines. In all their travels overseas, Taka and his band mates have not come across any other city that boasted such a massive, convenient network of connection. In L.A., for example, people would much rather drive their own cars - the downside of secluded comfort being the horrendous traffic that inconveniences everyone.

Hitherto Taka had never considered learning how to drive.

Growing up, he had relied on his parents. When he was kicked out of his home, he simply did not venture where he could not easily walk to. Only after joining the band did the singer’s desire to go further than this limit awaken. As the band rose in popularity, however, it became impossible for the easily recognisable vocalist to avail of trains and public transport in general. Fame, like everything, has its price. But he hadn’t minded: he always had his friends and, in particular, Toru, to give him rides, after all.

At this moment, for the first time in his life, Taka finally apprehends how overly reliant he’d become on the guitarist: for transport, companionship, comfort, and confidence. The full definition of their convenient relationship has only come to light in its glaring absence.

He stands on the curbside in front of the main Amuse company building as a dusting of snow falls around him, coating his hair, puffer jacket and ‘fire’ bag. The facemask he wears prevents his breath from forming a white fog. An icy draught blows, and he clutches his bag across his midsection. Snowflakes catch on his lashes.

In a parallel universe where he hadn’t fucked things up, he imagines he’d be warming his frozen limbs in front of an ornamental fireplace, huddled next to the other. Perhaps, once they were done, he’d begin to prepare their dinner and send the other out to get missing ingredients. He’d be so overjoyed, using his only other considerable talent of cooking to make the other happy, that he would break into unabashed song and dance while in the kitchen, before the front door would open and –

“Taka?”

“’ _kaasan_.”

The vocalist blinks away the snowflakes and daydreams alike. His mother’s car has rolled up and she calls through the opened passenger window. He quickly brushes the snow off his clothes before he pulls open the door. The vocalist hugs and kisses his mother, and she ruffles the rest of the snow out of his hair. Then, she fiddles around with the inbuilt sat nav as he belts himself in. When he’s done, he catches her eye.

“Want me to configure it to go to my apartment?” the vocalist offers.

“No, I’ve got it,” she says in that cheery voice of hers. 

Taka watches patiently as she mutters and huffs to herself as she fruitlessly taps random buttons.

“How do I get it to go to a saved address again?” she says irritably after a while, to which he has to hide his grin.

They’re so alike, even in their stubbornness, he acknowledges. It takes him less than a minute using his millennial tech savvy to figure it out before they’re driving off.

Inside the car, it’s cozy and quiet save for the sat nav’s polite instructions as to where to turn and its traffic updates. The vocalist’s body slowly unfreezes and he melts into his seat.

From the corner of his eye, Taka watches his mother’s face as she concentrates on manoeuvering the vehicle. Her face has gotten plumper over the years, but somehow it retains a sweet look to it that in her youth gave the impression of innocence, but now conveys serenity. He wonders if he’ll age the same, given that he takes after her.

“You don’t know how happy it makes me that you called me to pick you up,” she says when they’ve stopped at red light, “although I suppose you would have preferred your father, but he’s probably on another getaway.”

“Nonsense,” Taka half-guiltily refutes, but she smiles and shakes her head.

“The light’s turned green by the way,” he points out.

“Oh,” she gasps, putting the vehicle in motion again.

Masako Morita (formerly Moriuchi), as you would expect of someone her age, drives slowly and carefully, rarely in excess of 60km/hr. Propped up by a seat cushion, she leans her petite body forward and looks both ways before nudging the car through lightless intersections. She doesn’t speak, preferring to concentrate, but listens to the vocalist talk idly about his work, his brothers, his friends: anything but the reason why he’s called her after her Zumba class and asked her to drive him home in the first place.

A realisation hits Taka, then, that he’s actually not sure when his mother learned how to drive; not many women of her age demographic own their own car and drive, preferring instead to commute by public transport, or be driven by their husbands. He realises that she, too, was probably unable to take public transport at the height of her fame and likely even now, lest she be bombarded by fans.

The traffic is unusually light and within half an hour they’ve pulled up outside his – _their_ , his mind whispers – apartment complex. His mother pulls back the handbrake, and he wishes he could stay in the warm confines of her car for longer, but knows he can’t. He babbles to delay the inevitable.

“Oh yeah, I recently met Utada Hikaru, did you know? Remember how we used to love playing her first album over and over again? I can’t believe I’ve met one of my idols. Hikki-chan is so cute in real life. I wanna collaborate, maybe do – ”

He talks and talks until he sees his mother discreetly hold back a yawn ( _must be tired from her class_ , he surmises), and the guilt makes him run out of steam. He hangs his head and sighs.

Masako reaches out and places her hand – a slender, feminine version of his own – on his arm. Her mother’s intuition that something is wrong has been sounding off ever since she received a call from her eldest son. His voice had been casual during his request, but something primal within her detects a silent cry out for help that extends far beyond needing a simple car ride; it radiates from him now.

“He gets his overly emotional side from you, you know,” her ex-husband had accused her in the past, as if she had consciously chosen to give her dearest Takahiro what some people deem as a weakness.

For the longest time, she had believed him: that oversentimentality was indeed a disadvantage, but she is wisened now and knows it to also be her greatest strength. Sure, her career had been shorter than her ex-husband’s continuing one, but could he boast that he could reduce an entire audience to tears like she could? His singing style is technically perfect and more unique than hers. Yet it was her pure-heartedness and willingness to allow the audience into her emotional fold that truly touched others’ hearts and made them lifelong fans. This special talent is the same one her eldest son wields now, despite how clearly heartsick he seems to be.

“You know, I only learned to drive after your father and I separated,” she says, surprising him as if she had read his previous thoughts.

“It wasn’t because I was afraid to, before it. I could have chosen not to if I really wanted, but I was complacent. And I realised, after the fact, that I had missed out on so many other places I wanted to go see and enjoy, other than the ones your father also wanted to see and was willing to drive to. Now, I can go everywhere by myself if I want. And better yet, I can give others a ride when they need it.”

She lifts her hand and places it on her beloved son’s face. He leans in to it with a woeful attempt at a smile. The distress she sees on her son’s features is almost an exact replica of the day her ex-husband had announced he wanted a divorce, and her heart aches to fight his battles for him.

But, as they say, give a man fish and you feed him for a day; teach him how to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.

“It is scary at first, until you realise all sorts of people learn to do it, even old ladies like me,” her eyes turn into crescents when she smiles.

Gently she pulls him in, breathes in his hair ( _not so baby-sweet but more adult now_ , she thinks) and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“So how ‘bout it? Don’t you think it’s time to learn yourself?”

He books his first lesson the next day.

🕐🕐🕐

The months pass by and Taka settles into a new normal.

He engages in light, friendly banter with all his band mates during work hours, including Toru, even when he doesn’t feel like it. With time it gets easier. (On international tours, however, he requests for an individual room because why not – they can more than afford it now.)

Back in Tokyo, he even accepts rides home from the guitarist once in a while when he’s not meeting up with other friends or practicing his driving under the patient tutelage of his mother. He fills the silence with random talk about their day and the scenery so he doesn’t have to look deep into the other’s eyes. 

If he does manage to lock eyes with the other, the vocalist sees that they harbour regret and an urge to communicate _something_ but he doesn’t really care to find out anymore. The guitarist had cut him out without any say; it isn't therefore Taka's burden to alleviate the heaviness he sees weighing on the other. Plus, as someone who externalises his thoughts and feelings, even if he doesn’t want to, he wonders how anyone could repress themselves that way. Then again, he’s not in any position to ask; it’s something that only a lover, family member or really intimate friend deserved to.

And he is, at the end of it all, just a bandmate.

The trick to a productive, long-term partnership within a band or any venture really, ARASHI’s Jun once told him, is that you don’t mix business with pleasure. They are your comrades in a battle for success, and you can be as friendly as you want and even hang out sometimes outside of work; but for the most part, you must keep to yourselves and don’t meddle with each other’s personal affairs. 

“If you really want to go far,” Jun had summed it up, between puffs of his e-cigarette, “don’t shit where you eat.”

And as for intimate companionship, the easy thing to do for Taka would be to get over his ill-fated dalliance by throwing himself into impetuous hookups. But he’s not a reckless 16-year-old anymore, and he knows they’re just a Band-Aid that don’t do anything to silence the dark voices in his head.

So, instead, he focuses his efforts outside of work on his driving lessons, learning how to cook more complicated recipes, and finally leveling up his guitar and piano skills. With others, he learns to take a backseat and let someone else hog the limelight for a change while he hones his ability to really listen to what others need (instead of what they say they want).

One day, after another gruelling week of meetings about the band’s future directions, Ryota suggests that they try out the new Chinese place in Roppongi for dinner and drinks. 

Tomoya quickly agrees, always on the lookout for new food adventures. Toru looks troubled before he timidly asks if his girlfriend can tag along since he’d promised her to have dinner together.

“Sure - I don’t see why that would be a problem,” the bassist assents, but Taka can feel the unspoken hesitation as his eyes dart between that of the guitarist’s and the vocalist’s.

Tomoya also sends a glance his way. The singer reads the worry in the drummer’s wide eyes as if life were a TV show and there's descriptive text beneath his face that reads: “But what about Takahiro?”

On the other hand, Toru’s eyes hold a silent plea to make this outing as normal and pain-free as possible, like in the old days.

“The more the merrier,” he eventually agrees, and he’s suddenly aware that he truly does think so.

On the way to the building’s basement garage, he ends up walking behind the guitarist, who suddenly stops and nearly causes him to run into his back, if not for his quick reflexes.

Turning, the taller man asks: “Do you need a ride to the restaurant?”

His eyes bore into the vocalist’s before taking note of how close they stand. His pupils widen almost imperceptibly and there is a quiet desperation that makes his muscles coil tight.

But Taka, who looks up into his eyes and whose body still acutely remembers when the physical distance between was all but naught - but more importantly, the agony of the period after - takes a deep breath and steps back.

He remembers the conversation with his mother on that snowy night, and responds: “Nah, I'm good. ‘ _kaasan_ ’s lent me her car today. Besides, I’ve got to run a few errands before. I’ll see you guys there.”

The spring air that blows in through the opened car window as he drives, he notes later, has the bourgeoning scent of summer to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you catch that Annus Mirabilis reference?
> 
> Also, apparently you need a minimum of 5 days practice driving on the road after getting your learner driver's license in Japan, to be able to apply for a full driver's license?! So quick, but of course everyone does way more hours than that so they can ace their physical driving test.
> 
> When I first started this story, I thought it would be largely about Toruka. Little did I know, Toru dating someone else aside, that it would be a story about how Taka learns to become more self-aware and independent, and that intentions might be good, but actions are everything.
> 
> Lmk if you're still enjoying the story in the comments!


	12. Interlude IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was expecting to be busy getting ready for a new job, but sadly I didn't get it. Luckily for you, this means an extra chapter this week. This interlude's from Toru's POV.
> 
> Lyrics are from and remain the copyright of Milet's Inside You (also penned and produced by Toru!)
> 
> Enjoy!

The decision to change the lock on his front door was not made lightly.

Toru is not generally known for spontaneity, favouring a cautious approach to most things. His other band mates had even called him out on his tendency to procrastinate, which had led to his current predicament.

(“If only you had told him straight out – and sooner,” Ryota had sighed.

Tomoya, content in his own corner behind his drum kit, had pressed his lips together in a line of agreement.)

The only time the guitarist had acted seemingly at random was the first time he had approached their vocalist and practically begged him to join their band. Even then, he didn’t think it was a truly spontaneous act; he still believes that he had been pulled into the other’s sphere by gravity, magnetism, fate, or what have you. 

The pull to be near the other had been so strong that it hadn’t surprised Toru somewhere along the way he had fallen for the diminutive man. If pressed, the guitarist could not tell you even an estimate of when his feelings had changed. Call him a secret romantic, but he imagines he had always been that way from the beginning.

Life has a way of giving you what you want, but not in the way you had imagined it, or when.

Sure, he had often fantasised about the great sex they’d have whenever he put a palm to himself. In that aspect, the nightly trysts definitely lived up to his expectations. But the illicitness, metaphorical need for the cover of darkness and the way the other forcibly repelled him during the daylight hours – those, he hadn’t accounted for. The rift in his conscience and heart is just too much. 

With every craven encounter, he had spiraled into self-loathing.

What sort of man accepts being used?

And how could he look himself in the mirror, pretending to be a decent human being, when he accepted the loving affections of a good girlfriend in lieu of the love he wanted from the other man, who wasn’t willing to give it?

Was he so greedy that he’d forego his integrity?

Was he willing to settle for this perversion of the love that he wished for?

Is this the sort of person he wanted himself and the other to be?

Would they be happy this way?

No.

His heart aside, he knows he has to be strong as the band's leader and put an end to this unhealthy turn of events before it bleeds even more than it has into their work life and causes the band to curdle from within.

So, when he hears the scrape of a mismatched key into his front door, he presses his blunt nails into his palms and his teeth into his gums.

“ _Onegai_ ,” he thinks he hears being whispered from beyond the door.

The pleading scrape of nails like a banished animal.

In his mind, reflective yellow eyes; in his mouth, the tang of blood.

🕐🕐🕐

In the weeks that follow, it does not surprise him that the other withdraws from him and the rest of the band. The vocalist is there in body at every meeting, rehearsal and recording, but he is a husk whose voice rings hollow. Lives, however, are another matter: he animates himself so he gives a passable impression of his former self. That is how Toru knows he’s as truly dedicated to the band and grateful for their fans’ continued support.

It is from a purely practical point of view that the singer accepts rides to work in the morning from the guitarist. He spends them in a wordless daze, face turned to the window and coffee left to slowly chill in the cupholder. The beverage is only consumed once they reach their destination; the petite man’s sleep-fog lifts but in its place, he erects a thicker wall of feigned normality.

After the day’s work is done, the singer is the first out of the door. Toru knows only of where he disappears to through updates of the other’s Instagram. How sad is it, he thinks, that he has to resort to social media to see the other smile and hear him laugh?

That is the perhaps the worst part of the fallout: he feels he’s lost a best friend.

And Toru wants to break through this manufactured unreality to reach the other and come clean with his own feelings. Hopefully then he could once again touch the other’s heart, and tell how he truly feels about it all.

🕐🕐🕐

The one true emotion the guitarist catches glimpse of from behind the other’s façade, dishearteningly, is pain.

The guitarist pulls out of the Amuse building’s basement garage on his way to pick up Mayu for another date night. She’s promised to cook carbonara – his favourite Italian dish – and has cajoled him into watching the latest episode of a K-drama she’s following with her later. 

He’s about to turn onto the main road when he spots the vocalist near the curbside, alone and staring forlornly at his _keitai_.

Toru imagines the sight is like living in a polluted city choked by smog. Having seen how brightly the sun shines at its zenith, it is distressing to see its light smothered by the folly of humans. Or, more specifically, by the guitarist’s own folly.

Before he’s fully aware of himself, the guitarist has sent an apologetic text to his girlfriend that he’ll meet her at her place and has pulled up to the curb to offer the vocalist a ride home.

The other accepts the offer with words of thanks, but in his eyes there’s a flash of agony before they deaden once more. 

The words buried in the guitarist’s heart come through the car’s speakers, only to be buffeted back by the other's impenetrable wall.

_Tell me what is inside you, inside you now…  
_

_Let me in you again and just stay, please just stay…_

If only he had the courage to face the situation head on, before it had come to this.

_Maybe you’re right  
_

_Maybe your life is better without me…_

🕐🕐🕐

And maybe it was for the best that things turned out that way.

The thing is, the sun can only remain hidden for so long. Under the rule of the Heavens, the dawn follows the night, winter thaws to spring, smog eventually dissipates, and the light that shines naturally in Taka sparks to life again. His natural jokester side returns and though the singer is still hesitant, Toru can see that his actions and words now come from a more genuine place.

The Taka that emerges from the husk after being put through a trial of fire is tempered but stronger than before. He holds himself with a confidence that is centred from within, and with a newfound sensitivity that makes it hard to justify his bandmates’ running joke about his obliviousness.

And Toru is entranced like a moth to a flame.

In a moment of weakness, he forgets about his promise to put an end to his not-quite-romantic entanglement with the vocalist and be a faithful boyfriend.

“Do you need a ride to the restaurant?”

The question dangles in the air between them. The distance is so intimate that he can smell the musky dry down of the other’s signature cherry-tobacco scent. It plunges him into shadowed memories of dragging his lips along the other’s throat.

His heart and groin throb in anticipation.

He thinks: _If he says yes, I’ll give it all up for him. I’ll…_

But then Taka refuses, his light piercing through the guitarist’s clouded reason.

Though a very primal part of him is disappointed, Toru is glad they’ve somehow, without words and as friends should, agreed to encourage each other to be the best person they can possibly be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were at least two references to OOR songs hidden in this one, one to The Other Side and some to other works too - did you notice them?
> 
> Also, the end is nigh... one more chapter before the end!
> 
> Lmk in the comments.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! The final chapter... I'm both happy and conflicted at the same time. 
> 
> I started this fic thinking it would be one thing, but then it's become a different beast altogether. Is it normal to cry at your own fics, btw?
> 
> Anyhoo, enjoy!

The original plan was to hold a lavish, Western-style ceremony in a gorgeously lush and expansive venue in Yokohama during the summer. The photos from the website beheld verdant blooms that hung off every pew in the custom-made chapel and, in the reception hall, served as table runners as well as being stuffed in every nook and cranny available. In attendance would be the who’s who of the Japanese rock scene, in addition to the plentiful friends the band had made during their various tours of the U.S.

As luck would have it though, the spread of a highly infectious disease upturns the world as they know it. Further to the cancellation of their planned tours, measures to halt the virus in its tracks meant the difficult decision to hold a much more sober affair with only the closest of family and friends.

Management had welcomed the decision to conduct it privately. Outwardly, they had agreed that a luxurious event would be tone deaf to the plight of thousands upon thousands struck down and out by the disease. They know, however, that this is just a front: Toru’s attractiveness as a bachelor is a huge drawcard for fans, and keeping the news on the down low is of commercial interest.

🕐🕐🕐

On the day of the ceremony, a smartly-suited Taka takes a deep breath – in and slowly out – before rapping his knuckles against the wood of Toru’s front door. As he waits, he fiddles with the skinny tie around his neck, then runs his fingers through his carefully styled hair for the umpteenth time. He considers calling the guitarist when more than a minute ticks by, before the door swings open and –

“Taka.”

The guitarist stands before him in elegant, blue-grey suit pants and a crisp, pristine-white shirt whose expert tailoring brings attention to the taller man’s long, lean lines. He’s had a fresh haircut and, while the sides are shorn above the ear, his bangs are longer and drape diagonally off to one side. It is a welcome return to the style that has always been secretly the singer’s favourite on the other.

With his breath caught in his throat, Taka takes a second to acknowledge what a fine-looking groom the other makes. When his eyes lift towards the other’s face, he finds that the other is staring at him with open appreciation, too. But in the guitarist’s eyes also swirls a turbulent sea of feeling, which the singer reads all too well. The moment of reckoning is almost upon them. The smaller man nods, not trusting his voice just yet.

“ _Douzo_ ,” Toru says softly, ushering him in.

Taka does his best not to brush against the guitarist as he makes his way inside the narrow hallway. Something in his chest is summoned by the other’s familiar cologne, which, sprayed minutes before, scents the air with the suggestion of vanilla and incense. The singer breathes shallowly while he steps out of his shoes; this is so as not to take in too much of the other's scent, lest it bestirs memories he’d rather keep fettered away.

But when he steps up from the _genkan_ into the familiar space of the other’s home, the memories rush unbidden to the surface: the digging of fingers into flesh, the scrape of teeth, whispered pleas and the soundless breaking of his heart. He had thought himself ready for this, yet he is still pulled under, dragged by his traitorous body that responds subconsciously to this place.

When Taka turns around, he sees that the other is also floundering. A panic swells in the smaller man’s throat and whatever words of comfort and reassurance he had wanted to offer the guitarist are lost at sea. The tie on his neck suddenly feels like a noose.

“I…” the vocalist starts, voice reedy with anxiety.

His frantic eyes latch on to the skin beneath the unbuttoned parts of the other’s shirt, above which a tie lays half-done.

“ _Chotto toire_ ,” he chokes out before it all gets too much.

Inside the bathroom, the singer takes his time.

He flushes the toilet with unsteady fingers, then washes his hands for an absurdly long while. The water is almost too icy cool against his skin; he focuses on this sensation as he counts backwards slowly from ten to one, starting over again when he’s done.

Slowly, his mind calms and relaxes back into the present. He shuts off the tap and sedately registers the sight of a pair of toothbrushes on the counter, held upright at their base by ceramic ring holders. He looks to his left and spies two sets of shampoo and conditioners; on his right, matching fluffy white towels. He smiles ruefully and reminds himself of what he’s here to accomplish. 

When Taka reemerges from the bathroom, the guitarist is pacing up and down the length of the living room while he tries to hopelessly tie and re-tie the piece of smooth silk around his neck. The singer can see it’s a useless endeavour; the other is simply too worked up to do it effectively.

He strides up to the taller man and stands in a spot to cut off his pacing.

“Hold still,” the singer says firmly, when the other finally comes to a stop in front of him but his fingers are still worrying at the knot.

It’s a bit awkward because of the height difference and the fact he has to do it mirrored to how he usually does it, but with patient and gentle fingers, Taka manages to tie a neat, full Windsor knot. When he’s done, he lets his fingers trail down the length of the tie to smooth and straighten it against the guitarist’s chest. But he makes the mistake of letting them linger too long, that he feels how strong the other’s heartbeat is. Long fingers enclose his own and their warmth leaches into his.

“ _Arigatou_ ,” Toru rasps, his eyes shining with conflicting emotions.

Frozen by the other’s touch, Taka weakly shakes his head in a gesture that says it’s nothing.

Slowly, the other’s lips part again, in time with a sudden surge of his pulse underneath the singer’s digits.

“ _Na_ ,” the guitarist exhales jerkily, eyes penetrating deep into the vocalist’s when he looks up.

And Taka, after months of learning how to decipher other peoples’ wishes despite their garbled words and reticence, reads the other’s intentions in a glance.

Suddenly overcome with emotion, he swallows down a sob and pulls down he the taller man into a crushing embrace. Cheek to cheek, he indulges himself for a brief moment and wills himself to commit it to memory: the physical closeness and finally, for the first time in a while, the meeting of their hearts.

 _I’m sorry_ , they say without opening their mouths.

“I thought I had lost you; lost us,” the guitarist whispers shakily in his ear, his own arms wrapped tightly against the smaller man’s middle.

“ _Baka_ ,” Taka replies, his voice thick with unshed tears, “I said a long time ago, that I hoped we would be the type of friends that never lose touch with each other. I meant it then and I mean it now - literally and as a metaphor.”

“ _Boku mo_ ,” the guitarist, again, agrees.

In that quiet apartment, where his heart was broken a thousand-fold and is now in the process of mending itself, Taka holds the taller man until he no longer feels that the other’s pulse is erratic. Then, he lets go and checks his beloved watch, the elaborate timepiece a treasured birthday present from his bandmates. The hour has just struck one.

“ _Soro soro jikan yo_ ,” he announces, a soft smile on his lips.

“Get your suit jacket – time to drive you to your wedding.”

🕐🕐🕐

True to his word, Taka remains in contact with Toru over the years, even after ONE OK ROCK announces the indefinite hiatus of their band as their members tend to their young families and the vocalist launches his solo career in the U.S. The singer is in L.A. promoting his latest single but makes it back in time to celebrate the birth of Toru’s first child.

The former bandmembers form a rowdily cheerful circle around the bed, where the exhausted but glowing Mayu cradles a swaddled bundle to her chest. Around them are several congratulatory flowers and stuffed animals crammed on the bedside table and along the windowsill.

“You should have seen Toru-nii’s face when I got to the hospital,” Ryota jokes, scrunching his face, “He looked more constipated than before _Budokan_ and before we met Avril!”

Everyone laughs heartily including the guitarist, who half sits on the bed with his wife and daughter.

When the laughter fades away, Taka can sense the contentedness and gratitude of the taller man as well as the sincere well-wishes of those present so deeply, as if they were golden balls of light within them that send out rays connecting to each other.

Friends, he’s learned, are the family you make.

Then, he watches as the guitarist slides off the bed to kneel down and meet Tomoya’s youngest at his height.

“Do you want to hold the baby?” he asks the boy, eyes widened in question.

But the child is shy and runs behind the drummer’s legs.

“It’s easy,” the guitarist continues, “look, see how Uncle Taka does it.”

Startled, Taka’s eyebrows lift, and he chortles: “Sure, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“Watch carefully,” Tomoya instructs as the boy peeks out from behind him.

Toru stands up and Mayu carefully hands the sleeping infant in her arms to her husband. Then, the guitarist walks over to the other side of the bed where Taka stands. The vocalist makes a big show of forming an ellipse with his arms, his elbows akimbo and his left hand bracing his right wrist. Slowly, the guitarist lowers the infant into the petite man’s arms.

“See – so easy!” the vocalist hears the drummer say faintly, as if in the distance, while Ryota’s daughter requests a turn, too.

But Taka is too busy taking in the pleasant weight of the bundle in his arms. Her sweet smell fills his nose as he admires her long lashes – a feature from her mother. Something buds in his chest and he’s reminded of all things good in the world, like –

“Rivers, flowers, clouds, and mayflies,” the vocalist whispers under his breath, so softly that he’s unsure that anyone hears.

But beside him, he feels rather than sees, Toru’s breath catch.

They name her Hana.

**Owari.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested 'ending credits song' is this cover of Patty Smyth's Sometimes Love Just Ain't Enough: https://youtu.be/4ROGJ-Y-Xt4
> 
> So that's it, except for the epilogue!
> 
> What a journey it's been writing this fic, growing still as a writer and getting to the stage where I can put in references to my other fics and for readers to actually know what I'm referring to. This fic probably incorporates all the different parallel and connected universes of my previous fics, in some way. 
> 
> I love OOR, writing and all the people who have supported me in this journey. I hope I've given justice to everyone that's put faith into my writing. I know a lot of you would have rather the story turn out in another way but I had to hold true to what I personally feel and what I think flows naturally in the characters' journeys.
> 
> Liked it? Loved it? Hated it? Didn't get it? Lmk in the comments my lovelies 😊💖


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it - the end. I'm in tears again. 
> 
> Lyrics to, and copyright of, Heartache and All Mine belong to OOR. 
> 
> Enjoy...

Taka is 35 years old when he falls truly and selflessly in love for the first time.

He hurriedly books the earliest one-way ticket home the minute he gets the call that the mother of his child has gone into early labour by a month and half. The flight over the Pacific is a blur of safety demonstrations, bland food, snatches of a mildly interesting inflight movie and restless fever dreams. He’s exhausted yet still wired by the time he makes it out of the immigration gates, face masked and a cap pulled low to shield his eyes.

The singer strides off to a quiet corner to avoid the hoi-polloi when he receives a text from Ryota, who he’s expecting any moment now. Tapping it open, he reads:

_Welcome back! Hope your flight was good! Sorry but something came up, so the one that will take you to the hospital is_ –

“Toru,” the vocalist breathes out, turning around when a warm hand wraps around his bicep. He barely has time to get the name out before he’s folded into an embrace that smells of vanilla, incense and faint smoke. The nostalgic scent is a brief balm for his frazzled nerves.

“Taka…”

He wonders if he himself smells of nervous sweat and the dry, recycled air of the flight. When they break apart, his eyes meet the guitarist’s and he knows such trivial things are the furthest thing on the other’s mind. The taller man is smiling softly and perhaps it's because they've spent several months spent apart, that the vocalist suddenly notices the deepening of worry lines around the other's eyes.

A sudden cough before Taka spies a curious onlooker.

Hana watches the affectionate exchange from her father’s side, one arm clutching a familiar buck-toothed dinosaur with sleepy eyes to her body. Immediately, the petite man crouches down and greets her with a kiss to her soft cheek. He is absolutely delighted when she shyly returns the kiss.

“Who’s that you’ve got with you Hana- _chan_?” he asks, with a hand to her belly.

“Gachapin,” she answers with a mouth full of teeth. She looks like a proper little girl now, compared to the toddler he saw last year.

“He stays with me when Papa can’t,” she continues.

Taka blinks with surprise at her full sentence and catches her father’s eye as he rises to his feet. He raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll tell you later,” Toru replies, taking a hold of Taka’s luggage and extending the handle further, “We need to get you to the hospital and out of here before we get recognised.”

“ _Un_ ,” the singer agrees, but not before he picks up Hana and sets her on top of the suitcase so that her legs wrap around the sides of the handles, as if on a ride.

“Hold on tight - now we’re ready to go!”

He places steadying hand on her back as she giggles all the way to the car park.

🕐🕐🕐

Some things change, but others remain the same.

They wind up in Tokyo traffic, despite Toru’s best efforts to avoid the routes outlined in red in his SUV’s sat nav.

Hana begins to whine that she’s hungry from the backseat and suddenly Taka has a glimpse of his future when he witnesses the infamous temper of the “three-nager".

“Pass me some jelly from the glovebox?” Toru requests, after the third time his daughter ‘accidentally’ kicks the back of the driver’s seat and the Gachapin plushie is hurled against a closed window.

“Okay,” the singer yawns, peeling himself from his seat and reaching in front of him.

“Hana,” the guitarist’s firm voice warns as he peeks at his daughter from the rearview mirror, “I won’t put on your favourite music if you don’t behave.”

The volume of her whining drops immediately to soft whimpers.

Meanwhile, Taka finds a packet of jelly amongst juice boxes and another snacks, and hands it over to the guitarist. The latter twists off the top then reaches backward to hand the packet to his daughter. She accepts it enthusiastically and the car is finally silent while she is preoccupied with trying to suck the jelly out. A minute or two passes before Toru’s satisfied with her behaviour.

“Can you put on the playlist that says ‘Hana’?” the guitarist asks of Taka, while the former is busy merging the car into another lane.

The vocalist assents with a nod before he deftly navigates the other’s plugged-in phone and presses ‘play’.

The _mezzo-piano_ strum of an acoustic guitar before Taka’s own voice fills the vehicle’s interior.

_So they say that time takes away the pain_

_But I’m still the same_

_And they say that I will find another you_

_But that can’t be true, oh …_

The vocalist thumbs his way through the rest of the playlist and remarks with surprise that all the songs are acoustic versions of their band’s songs, or otherwise feature only the guitarist and himself.

“She loves your voice,” the other admits quietly, when the flow of cars is again stalled to trickle and their eyes meet over the console, “It’s the only thing that can make her fall asleep.” 

“ _Maji de? Yokatta_ ,” Taka smiles back.

And sure enough, Heartache is over and All Mine’s only just begun when the girl’s head lolls back and her grip on the jelly packet loosens. Taka carefully pries the packet from her fingers, turns back around and disposes it in the small trash bin attached to the passenger side door. The guitarist thanks him and they lapse into a contemplative silence as the violins swell in the background.

_Only you_

_Always you …_

Outside the car, Taka sees that the leaves of the trees that line the street are beginning to turn orange-red. The people on the sidewalk wear light jackets, and couples use the slight chill of the air as a convenient excuse to snuggle a little closer. The world is changing again, bit-by-bit, as it is wont to do. The vocalist feels his own life is about to change drastically; he closes his eyes briefly to enjoy the exhilaration of the moment.

Taka can’t tell if it’s his nerves or _something_ else, but a strange yet not wholly unfamiliar feeling makes his skin prickle when he opens his eyes and finds that he’s being watched.

“What?” he asks.

The other’s eyes linger for a second before turning back to the road.

“We’ve still got half an hour, so you might as well take a short nap since you’re tired,” Toru suggests, eyes still diverted, “But just… don’t get your drool on the seat.”

The vocalist rolls his eyes and pokes out a cheeky tongue before turning his back to the taller man and resting his head against his seat. He jostles around as he tries to get comfortable. After, he checks his _keitai_ for the nth time – no further news besides she’s doing a great job.

Dusk is gradually descending and through the window, he watches with heavy lids as the streetlamps flicker on overhead. He’s about to drift off, though adrenaline still weakly pulses in his veins, when he hears the other’s voice.

“We’ve separated since a few months ago.”

Taka doesn’t reply and keeps his face turned towards the window. He doesn’t know what to say; the syllables of the words float in his dimming consciousness, like faintly shimmering musical notes that slowly descend into darkness.

He drifts off and dreams of strings of bright fairy lights atop a roof.

🕐🕐🕐

In the end, they don’t make it in time for the actual moment of birth. By the time they arrive, his son – his _son_ , he privately marvels – has been whisked away to a special ward for premature babies.

After visiting the surrogate mother of his child and thanking her profusely for everything she’s done, he leaves her alone to finally rest. He heads straight for the premature ward, with the guitarist and a sleeping Hana in tow.

When the vocalist gets there, he is shown by a matronly nurse to a special plastic, enclosed bassinet where his eyes fall on a tiny infant, who is hooked up to all sorts of wires and tubes but is otherwise in the pink of health.

And just like the Taiwanese fortune-teller had predicted all those years ago, Taka falls in love completely and utterly at first sight.

One by one, tears begin to stream freely from the vocalist’s eyes as he drops to his knees and carefully inserts hand through a hole in the cabinet and strokes a finger against his son’s palm. He chokes on his sob when tiny fingers reflexively close around the tip of his finger. Overjoyed, he turns his head and smiles a wide, teary smile at the tall man by his side.

“Taka- _‘tou_ - _chan_ ,” Toru dubs him, unable to stop himself from returning the brilliant smile, “He looks like an even smaller version of you, if possible.”

The vocalist erupts into a semi-delirious, exhausted chuckle. The commotion wakes both the newborn and the sleeping child in the guitarist’s arms. The newborn starts to wail with a surprising amount of gusto for his size.

“Sounds like you too,” the taller man jokes, but Taka is too spellbound by the sight and sound of his son.

Hana removes her hands from around her father’s neck and wriggles until he puts her down next to the vocalist. She gasps in wonder when she realises it’s a crying baby inside the plastic bassinet. Taka gathers her to him, propping her up on his waist so that she has a clearer view.

Then, unprompted, the girl begins to loudly hum the tune to _Wherever You Are_. As if by magic, the baby’s cries halt as his ears take in the wonderful new experience. He settles and it’s not long before his chest returns to a steady rise and fall that indicates he’s asleep. The two men can only stare in wonder.

“Oh, Hana- _chan_!” Taka kisses her cheek repeatedly when she finishes her song, “ _Arigatou_.”

Nodding once, the girl swivels her head up to her father and asks: “Papa, is that my _otouto_?”

The singer watches amusedly when Toru’s eyes widen and pink steals into his cheeks.

“Hana, where’d you learn that word?” the guitarist asks, coughing lightly to cover his embarrassment.

“Mie- _chan_ has an _otouto_ ,” she explains, her attention again caught by the sighing baby on the other side of the plastic wall she places her hands on.

The taller man's lips fall open in surprise and he mouths ‘neighbour’ over her head to the vocalist. Taka purses his lips and bobs his head in acknowledgement before turning back to his son.

All three silently watch the slumbering infant until Hana’s voice pipes up again, though her eyes never leave the newborn.

“So, is he? Is he my _otouto_?” she squirms in curiosity while in the vocalist’s arms.

With his heart completer than he could ever imagine, Taka looks up at the other, whose eyes shine as he awaits the answer with bated breath, and responds:

“Yes, if you want.”

There is no mistaking the unparalleled joy that breaks through the other’s usual, composed expression.

“We’d love that,” is the watery reply.

And beyond Tokyo, on the outskirts of Osaka, a lost cat with midnight fur makes it way out of a seemingly endless tunnel of bushes and finds a stone bench at the end of a clearing. It jumps up on to it, curls around itself and promptly falls asleep on its smooth surface.

Above, the light of the moon – a sliver shy of being full – shines quietly on.

**Owari.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out the hopeless romantic in me prevailed in the end. I'm crying happy tears and I'm glad that at least in this alternate universe our boys find their way back to each other.
> 
> Thank you everyone for putting up with the random ups and downs of this fic. Thank you so much for your wonderful comments and support 🙏🙏🙏You don't know how much it means to writers to receive even the tiniest of acknowledgements. It brings me so much joy to bring you joy 🥰😘❤️ That being said though, time for me to officially enter a Toruka hiatus 😢
> 
> Did you catch all the references? (I couldn't help but give a wink to the adorable footage of Taka riding his luggage at the airport.) What did you think of the ending? Lmk in the comments 😘


	15. Omake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic universe keeps writing itself even when I thought I was completely done. I don't know whether to cry or feel relieved coz it means my shipping heart is on the mend?
> 
> In any case, enjoy this bonus chapter! Belated Happy Valentine's Day!

Wolfing down your food satiates your hunger but takes the pleasure of the experience away.

Taka learns this when he’s left sticky-fingered and envious as he watches Tomo and little Hiro slowly lick at their ice-cream until they’re close enough to the cone to nibble at the wafer. If asked, the future singer would not be able to remember what flavour his own was; such was his determination to quell his hunger pangs. After, he’s still left feeling like he’s missed out on something when he sees the enjoyment and concentration on his brothers’ young faces.

Hiro, who still sits in a baby seat, has likely mixed his ice-cream with an equal amount of drool, so the eldest of the three decides to target the brother that’s closest to him in age.

“Gimme some of yours,” he orders Tomo, who unlike Taka, has not dirtied his Gundam shirt with milky stains and crumbs.

His brother, unhappy but acquiescent, is about to hand over the last few bites of his cone when their father intervenes.

“No, Taka, Tomo’s ice-cream is his to finish,” he rasps, with stern eyes over his spectacles, “remember that, next time you eat your food so quickly and carelessly.”

And that was that; Taka is forced to watch on as his brothers finish their treats at an agonizingly slow pace. His ears flare red with jealously and anger at being chastised.

🕐🕐🕐

“Yeah, I was such a little shit,” Taka admits after recounting that anecdote.

The singer carefully twirls strands of spaghetti flecked with mince and parmesan around a fork.

“What’s changed?” Toru jokes wryly, looking up after gathering the remaining smudges of bolognese sauce off his plate with his fork and into his mouth; the singer’s home cooking is just too good to waste.

Without a break in his movements, the smaller man raises the loaded fork close to his mouth and answers:

“I guess life’s more or less gotten it through my thick head that I should be patient and savour the experience.”

The guitarist nods and then watches as the fork disappears into Taka’s mouth, lips scraping tightly and slowly against the utensil as if to make sure every last bit is taken in. The vocalist’s Adam’s apple bobs ever so slightly as his jaw works at the food, before it rises up and down with his swallow. Under the bare bulb over the dining table, the guitarist sees that the smaller man’s fleshy lips are stained a shade darker by the sauce.

The soft clatter of metal against ceramic as Toru’s fork slips from his loose grip.

“Sometimes slower is better,” Taka half-smiles, his eyes widening a fraction when Toru’s gaze drifts upwards to meet his and the singer sees a different sort of hunger rising in it.

“Even if you can’t wait any longer?” the taller man answers in a low voice, thinking on the weeks, months, years that he’s patiently waited for this moment to happen, again.

Absentmindedly, he picks up the napkin off his lap and wipes at his own lips. When he places it on the table after, he sees that Taka’s eyes are drawn to the red-brown smear against the snow-white cloth.

“Yeah,” the vocalist breathes into the silence.

Taka feels his pulse throb in his ears and his fingers. All of a sudden, he’s very aware of the cotton of his shirt against his chest and the tightness of his jeans hugging at his thighs and his groin. His eyes meet the guitarist’s again but he quickly jerks them back down to his plate, fearful of what they may betray.

They’d been dancing around the issue for months now; so long that he had wondered whether he had read the other’s intentions at the hospital wrong. Perhaps the guitarist had only meant that they support each other as they raised their children as single parents.

 _That should be enough for you_ , Taka chastises himself.

Toru’s experience and the convenience of having him move back into his old apartment had honestly been a godsend for the vocalist. Many a late night or early dawn he had knocked on his neighbour’s door to ask him to help settle Haru*, too exhausted and desperate to feel sheepish at being such a bother at the inappropriate hour. He was sincerely grateful for all the times he’d finally caught a few hours’ sleep on the guitarist’s couch, waking up to find freshly brewed coffee and last night’s bottles sterilised and drying on the kitchen bench. He was thankful too, that during the days Hana spent with her father, she knew to play quietly when next to her old crib, where the (at last) sleeping Haru lay.

In return, Taka offered to cook dinner most nights for both families. Sometimes they sat altogether at Toru’s dinner table to enjoy the meal. Hana would prattle about her day at childcare while Taka would hold Haru in the crook of one arm and an upturned bottle in the hand of other. Toru would take pity on the new father and eat his meal quickly so he could take over feeding the newborn. Lately, however, they’ve graduated to taking turns at spoon-feeding the now upright Haru with mushy vegetables. They turn it into a game to see who’s successful at getting the baby to swallow and not spit up the food seconds later. Hana’s trick was to distract the baby by pulling funny faces so that he would forget to bring up his food shortly after.

Some nights, like this one, were Mayu’s turn to take Hana for the rest of the week, and were a quieter affair. Earlier, Haru had blissfully slipped into a food coma as soon as he was done eating. Taka had carefully pulled him up from the baby chair and put him down in Hana’s room after burping him. When the vocalist had returned to the table, he found the guitarist waiting to finish their dinner, together.

And now, this – whatever _this_ was.

 _Having Toru around just to help should be enough_ , the vocalist repeats to himself, although he’s vividly alert to the other’s heavy, expectant stare.

In his mind, he had already surrendered himself to the notion that he had squandered his chance years ago and that he was undeserving of another. It’s only his traitorous heart that read too deeply into the guitarist’s words that night in the hospital ward; that reads too deeply now into the tension that has taken hold at the table.

Taka gets up so abruptly that the wooden legs of the chair screech against the concrete floor. He mutters a half-comprehensible offer to do the dishes, turns and walks without seeing to the kitchen sink. He lowers his plate and cutlery down into it as he exhales slowly in a bid to quieten the hammering of his heartbeat.

 _It’s happening_ , he realises when he hears the other push his chair back and footfalls coming up behind him.

They don’t have the excuse of children present to dodge the issue that has grown between them, fed by lingering thank you’s and suppressed smiles over their children’s oblivious heads. A weed or a flower? Taka knows the following moments will illuminate the answer.

The footfalls stop dangerously close to the vocalist’s turned back. They’re not touching, yet he can feel the warmth of the other’s body all the way from his head down to his toes. He jumps a little when gentle fingers slide their tips along the inside of his bent elbow but hesitate to go further than the middle of his forearm. They stop to rest there, along with a thumb that feels like it’s burning a cigarette hole into his sensitive skin.

“I owe you an apology,” Toru states simply.

The breath that carries the words lifts the hair on Taka’s neck in a most delicious way. He tries to blink away the thought to no avail.

“For what?” the singer chokes out.

“I’m not good at expressing myself.”

“Oh?”

Taka feels the fingers on his arm curl into his skin as the other mulls over his next words. Behind him, he hears a sigh before the guitarist closes the distance; he rests his forehead against the back of Taka’s head and his body all but melts into the smaller man’s.

“I’ll say this as clearly as I can so we’re on the same page,” the taller man says in almost a whisper, not needing to be loud given how close they stand.

“I fucked up all those years ago when I didn’t tell you how I felt about you. I even blamed my parents for my mask of a face; anything to deny that I was a coward for not facing the issue straight on. You coming to me on those nights were a sort of half-confession of your feelings. I should have stepped up and told you then when I had the chance, but I didn’t.”

The heartfelt words shock Taka’s already fraying nerves and he feels as if there’s a wave behind him that draws upwards, cresting and poised to break over him. He holds his breath under the swell.

“If I was too subtle again at the hospital, I’ll say it outright so you won’t get the wrong idea: I love you. I’m in love with you. I want a family with you.”

At those words, the wave breaks and, in its wake, droplets on the crags of Taka’s face. If he’s being too melodramatic, it is forgivable, given his patience throughout the years.

“I’m going to the bedroom,” Toru continues, after he presses an adoring kiss on the back of the vocalist’s neck, “If you decide to join me there, I’ll take it that you feel the same for me. No pressure if you don’t; I’m willing to wait because I know it will be worth it in the end.”

But, as the words sink in, Taka whips himself around so fast that the guitarist has to use both hands either side of the other to brace his stumble.

And, because some things change, and yet some remain the same, the singer answers: “Fuck waiting.”

They spend the rest of the night slowly reacquainting themselves with the dips and grooves of each other’s bodies; they nibble, lick and savour the taste of the other until they’re both sticky with satisfaction.

“Mine,” and “yours”, they sleepily agree, afterwards, as the blues of the dawn steal into the bedroom.

And Taka, who was once too late (or early, depending on the telling of the tale), finds that his timing is finally right.

**Owari (for reals this time).**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno, I guess it didn't feel right that Toru was also at fault for not being communicative enough and I didn't pull him up on it. Also, I never knew I needed the little snippets of domestic Toruka with their babies 😍
> 
> *Haru, is short for Haruto and the nickname is a nod to Miura Haruma.
> 
> Hope this bonus chapter brightened your day 😘 Byeeeeee!

**Author's Note:**

> Yay or nay? Go or no go, with this multi-chapter? Lemme know in the comments 💗
> 
> Oh and yes, the title refers to Justin Bieber's song and the fact they played it in their IG acoustic live.


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